LOVE 
CONQJ-IERSALL 


ROBERT  C.  BENCHLEY 


GIFT  OF 
ROBERT  GORDON  SPROUL 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
GENERAL  LIBRARY,  BERKELEY 


They  look  him  over  as  if  he  were  a  fresh  air  child  being 
given  a  day's  outing. 


LOVE 
CONQUERS    ALL 


BY 


ROBERT  C.  BENCHLEY 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

GLUYAS  WILLIAMS 


NEW  YORK 
HENRY  HOLT  AND   COMPANY 

1922 


COPYRIGHT,  1922, 

BY 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

Printed  October,  1922 


Add' I 


GIFT 


PRINTED  IN  THE  U.S.A. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

The  author  thanks  the  editors  of  the  following 
publications  for  their  permission  to  print  the  articles 
in  this  book:  Life,  The  New  York  World,  The  New 
York  Tribune,  The  Detroit  Athletic  Club  News,  and 
The  Consolidated  Press  Association. 


iii 

581 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I    THE      BENCHLEY-WHITTIER     CORRE 
SPONDENCE    3 

n    FAMILY  LIFE  IN  AMERICA 

Parti 8 

Part  2 10 

Part  3 ii 

HI    THIS  CHILD  KNOWS  THE  ANSWER  — 

Do  You? 13 

IV    RULES  AND  SUGGESTIONS  FOR  WATCH 
ING  AUCTION  BRIDGE 16 

V    A  CHRISTMAS  SPECTACLE 23 

VI    How  TO  WATCH  A  CHESS  MATCH     .  29 

VII    WATCHING  BASEBALL 35 

VIII    How  TO  BE  A  SPECTATOR  AT  SPRING 

PLANTING 41 

DC    THE  MANHATTADOR 47 

X    WHAT   TO   Do   WHILE    THE    FAMILY 

Is  AWAY 50 

XI    "ROLL  YOUR  OWN" 56 

XII    Do  INSECTS  THINK? 62 

XIII  THE  SCORE  IN  THE  STANDS 65 

XIV  MID-WINTER  SPORTS 70 

XV    READING  THE  FUNNIES  ALOUD    ...  74 

XVI    OPERA  SYNOPSES 

I    Die  Meister-Genossenschaft     .  78 

n    H  Minnestrone 82 

III    Lucy  de  Lima      84 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

XVII    THE  YOUNG  IDEA'S  SHOOTING  GALLERY  87 

XVIII    POLYP  WITH  A  PAST 92 

XIX    HOLT!  WHO  GOES  THERE? 96 

XX    THE  COMMITTEE  ON  THE  WHOLE    .  100 
XXI    NOTING  AN  INCREASE  IN  BIGAMY   .   .  104 
XXII    THE  REAL  WIGLAF:   MAN  AND  MON 
ARCH 108 

XXIII  FACING  THE  BOYS'  CAMP  PROBLEM    .  113 

XXIV  ALL  ABOUT  THE  SILESIAN  PROBLEM  .  116 
XXV    HAPPY    THE    HOME    WHERE    BOOKS 

ARE  FOUND 120 

XXVI    WHEN  NOT  IN  ROME,  WHY  Do  AS 

THE  ROMANS  DID?     124 

XXVII    THE  TOOTH,  THE  WHOLE  TOOTH,  AND 

NOTHING  BUT  THE  TOOTH    ....  131 

XXVIII    MALIGNANT  MIRRORS 144 

XXIX    THE  POWER  OF  THE  PRESS 148 

XXX    HOME  FOR  THE  HOLIDAYS 150 

XXXI    How  TO  UNDERSTAND  INTERNATIONAL 

FINANCE 157 

XXXII    'TWAS  THE  NIGHT  BEFORE   SUMMER  160 

XXXIII  WELCOME  HOME  —  AND  SHUT  UP  .   .  168 

XXXIV  ANIMAL  STORIES 

I    Georgia  Dog 174 

II    Lillian  Mosquito 178 

XXXV    THE  TARIFF  UNMASKED 182 

LITERARY  DEPARTMENT 

XXXVI    "TAKE  ALONG  A  BOOK" 187 

XXXVII    CONFESSIONS  OF  A  CHESS  CHAMPION.  190 

XXXVIII    "Rip  VAN  WINKLE" 195 

vi 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

XXXIX    LITERARY  LOST  AND  FOUND  DEPT.    .  200 

XL    "DARKWATER" 206 

XLI    THE  NEW  TIME-TABLE! 211 

XLII    MR.  BOK'S  AMERICANIZATION  ....  216 

XLIII    ZANE  GREY'S  MOVIE     221 

XLIV    SUPPRESSING  "JURGEN" 227 

XLV    ANTI-IBANEZ 231 

XL VI    ON  BRICKLAYING 236 

XL VII    "AMERICAN  ANNIVERS ARIES "  ....  241 

XLVIII    A  WEEK-END  WITH  WELLS     ....  245 

XLIX    ABOUT  PORTLAND  CEMENT 249 

L    OPEN  BOOKCASES 253 

LI    TROUT-FISHING 257 

LII    "SCOUTING  FOR  GIRLS" 261 

LITE    How  TO  SELL  GOODS 265 

LIV    "You!" 270 

LV    THE  CATALOGUE  SCHOOL 274 

LVI    "EFFECTIVE  HOUSE  ORGANS"     ...  277 

LVII    ADVICE  TO  WRITERS 282 

LVTII    "THE  EFFECTIVE  SPEAKING  VOICE"  .  286 
LIX    THOSE  DANGEROUSLY  DYNAMIC  BRIT 
ISH  GIRLS 291 

LX    BOOKS  AND  OTHER  THINGS 294 

LXI    "MEASURE  YOUR  MIND".       ....  298 

LXII    THE  BROW-ELEVATION  IN   HUMOR    .  303 

LXIII    BUSINESS  LETTERS 307 


vii 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

They  look  him  over  as  if  he  were  a  fresh  air  child 

being  given  a  day's  outing Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

The  watcher  walks  around  the  table,  giving  each 

hand  a  careful  scrutiny 18 

"'Round  and  'round  the  tree  I  go" 26 

"Atta  boy,  forty-nine:  Only  one  more  to  go!"  .  44 
For  three  hours  there  is  a  great  deal  of  screaming  .  60 
He  was  further  aided  by  the  breaks  of  the  game  .  72 
Mrs.  Deemster  didn't  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the 

thing  at  all 90 

"  That's  right,"  says  the  chairman 102 

"If  you  weren't  asleep  what  were  you  doing  with 

your  eyes  closed?" 122 

You  would  gladly  change  places  with  the  most  law 
less  of  God's  creatures 140 

I  am  mortified   to  discover   that   the   unpleasant 

looking  man  is  none  other  than  myself  .    .    .     146 
"I  can  remember  you  when  you  were  that  high"    154 

She  would  turn  away  and  bite  her  lip 162 

"Listen  Ed!    This  is  how  it  goes!" 212 

They  intimate   that   I  had  better   take  my  few 
pennies  and  run  'round  the  corner  to  some  little 

haberdashery 266 

I  thank  them  and  walk  in  to  the  nearest  dining- 
room  table 254 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  us  that  you  were  reading  a 

paper  on  birth  control?" 292 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 


THE  BENCHLEY-WHITTIER  CORRE 
SPONDENCE 

OLD  scandals  concerning  the  private  life  of  Lord 
Byron  have  been  revived  with  the  recent 
publication  of  a  collection  of  his  letters.  One  of 
the  big  questions  seems  to  be:  Did  Byron  send  Mary 
Shelley's  letter  to  Mrs.  R.  B.  Hoppner?  Everyone 
seems  greatly  excited  about  it. 

Lest  future  generations  be  thrown  into  turmoil 
over  my  correspondence  after  I  am  gone,  I  want  right 
now  to  clear  up  the  mystery  which  has  puzzled 
literary  circles  for  over  thirty  years.  I  need 
hardly  add  that  I  refer  to  what  is  known  as  the 
"  Benchley-Whittier  Correspondence." 

The  big  question  over  which  both  my  biographers 
and  Whittier's  might  possibly  come  to  blows  is  this, 
as  I  understand  it:  Did  John  Greenleaf  Whittier  ever 
receive  the  letters  I  wrote  to  him  in  the  late  Fall 
of  1890?  //  he  did  not,  who  did?  And  under 
what  circumstances  were  they  written? 

I  was  a  very  young  man  at  the  time,  and  Mr. 
Whittier  was,  naturally,  very  old.  There  had  been 

[3] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

a  meeting  of  the  Save-Our-Song-Birds  Club  in  old 
Dane  Hall  (now  demolished)  in  Cambridge,  Massa 
chusetts.  Members  had  left  their  coats  and  hats 
in  the  check-room  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  (now 
demolished). 

In  passing  out  after  a  rather  spirited  meeting, 
during  the  course  of  which  Mr.  Whittier  and  Dr. 
Van  Blarcom  had  opposed  each  other  rather  violently 
over  the  question  of  Baltimore  orioles,  the  aged  poet 
naturally  was  the  first  to  be  helped  into  his  coat. 
In  the  general  mix-up  (there  was  considerable  good- 
natured  fooling  among  the  members  as  they  left, 
relieved  as  they  were  from  the  strain  of  the 
meeting)  Whittier  was  given  my  hat  by  mistake. 
When  I  came  to  go,  there  was  nothing  left  for  me 
but  a  rather  seedy  gray  derby  with  a  black  band, 
containing  the  initials  "  J.  G.  W."  As  the  poet  was 
visiting  in  Cambridge  at  the  time  I  took  opportunity 
next  day  to  write  the  following  letter  to  him: 

Cambridge,  Mass. 
November  7,  1890. 
Dear  Mr.  Whittier: 

I  am  afraid  that  in  the  confusion  following  the 
Save-Our-Song-Birds  meeting  last  night,  you  were 
given  my  hat  by  mistake.  I  have  yours  and  will 

[4] 


THE  CORRESPONDENCE 

gladly  exchange  it  if  you  will  let  me  know  when  I 
may  call  on  you. 

May  I  not  add  that  I  am  a  great  admirer  of  your 
verse?  Have  you  ever  tried  any  musical  comedy 
lyrics?  I  think  that  I  could  get  you  in  on  the 
ground  floor  in  the  show  game,  as  I  know  a  young 
man  who  has  written  several  songs  which  E.  E. 
Rice  has  said  he  would  like  to  use  in  his  next 
comic  opera  —  provided  he  can  get  words  to  go 
with  them. 

But  we  can  discuss  all  this  at  our  meeting, 
which  I  hope  will  be  soon,  as  your  hat  looks  like 
hell  on  me. 

Yours  respectfully, 

ROBERT  C.  BENCHLEY. 

I  am  quite  sure  that  this  letter  was  mailed,  as 
I  find  an  entry  in  my  diary  of  that  date  which 
reads: 

"Mailed  a  letter  to  J.  G.  Whittier.  Cloudy 
and  cooler." 

Furthermore,  in  a  death-bed  confession,  some 
ten  years  later,  one  Mary  F.  Rourke,  a  servant 
employed  in  the  house  of  Dr.  Agassiz,  with  whom 
Whittier  was  bunking  at  the  time,  admitted  that 
she  herself  had  taken  a  letter,  bearing  my  name  in 

[51 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

the  corner  of  the  envelope,  to  the  poet  at  his  break 
fast  on  the  following  morning. 

But  whatever  became  of  it  after  it  fell  into  his 
hands,  I  received  no  reply.  I  waited  five  days,  dur 
ing  which  time  I  stayed  in  the  house  rather  than  go 
out  wearing  the  Whittier  gray  derby.  On  the  sixth 
day  I  wrote  him  again,  as  follows: 

Cambridge,  Mass. 

Nov.  14,  1890. 
Dear  Mr.  Whittier: 
How  about  that  hat  of  mine? 

Yours  respectfully, 

ROBERT  C.  BENCHLEY. 

I  received  no  answer  to  this  letter  either.  Con 
cluding  that  the  good  gray  poet  was  either  too  busy 
or  too  gosh-darned  mean  to  bother  with  the  thing, 
I  myself  adopted  an  attitude  of  supercilious  uncon 
cern  and  closed  the  correspondence  with  the  fol 
lowing  terse  message: 

Cambridge,  Mass. 

December  4,  1890. 
Dear  Mr.  Whittier: 

It  is  my  earnest  wish  that  the  hat  of  mine  which 
you  are  keeping  will  slip  down  over  your  eyes  some 
day,  interfering  with  your  vision  to  such  an 

[6] 


THE  CORRESPONDENCE 

extent  that  you  will  walk  off  the  sidewalk  into  the 
gutter  and  receive  painful,  albeit  superficial,  injuries. 

Your  young  friend, 

ROBERT  C.  BENCHLEY. 

Here  the  matter  ended  so  far  as  I  was  concerned, 
and  I  trust  that  biographers  in  the  future  will  not 
let  any  confusion  of  motives  or  misunderstanding 
of  dates  enter  into  a  clear  and  unbiased  state 
ment  of  the  whole  affair.  We  must  not  have  an 
other  Shelley-Byron  scandal. 


[7] 


II 

FAMILY  LIFE  IN  AMERICA 
PART   i 

The  naturalistic  literature  of  this  country  has  reached 
such  a  state  that  no  family  of  characters  is  considered 
true  to  life  which  does  not  include  at  least  two  hypo 
chondriacs,  one  sadist,  and  one  old  man  who  spills 
food  down  the  front  of  his  vest.  If  this  school  pro 
gresses,  the  following  is  what  we  may  expect  in  our 
national  literature  in  a  year  or  so. 

THE  living-room  in  the  Twillys'  house  was  so 
damp  that  thick,  soppy  moss  grew  all  over 
the  walls.  It  dripped  on  the  picture  of  Grand 
father  Twilly  that  hung  over  the  melodeon,  making 
streaks  down  the  dirty  glass  like  sweat  on  the  old 
man's  face.  It  was  a  mean  face.  Grandfather 
Twilly  had  been  a  mean  man  and  had  little  spots 
of  soup  on  the  lapel  of  his  coat.  All  his  children 
were  mean  and  had  soup  spots  on  their  clothes. 

Grandma  Twilly  sat  in  the  rocker  over  by  the 
window,  and  as  she  rocked  the  chair  snapped.  It 
sounded  like  Grandma  Twilly's  knees  snapping  as 
they  did  whenever  she  stooped  over  to  pull  the 
wings  off  a  fly.  She  was  a  mean  old  thing.  Her 
knuckles  were  grimy  and  she  chewed  crumbs  that 
[8] 


FAMILY  LIFE  IN  AMERICA 

she  found  in  the  bottom  of  her  reticule.  You  would 
have  hated  her.  She  hated  herself.  But  most  of 
all  she  hated  Grandfather  Twilly. 

"  I  certainly  hope  you're  frying  good/'  she  mut 
tered  as  she  looked  up  at  his  picture. 

"  Hasn't  the  undertaker  come  yet,  Ma?  "  asked 
young  Mrs.  Wilbur  Twilly  petulantly.  She  was 
boiling  water  on  the  oil-heater  and  every  now  and 
again  would  spill  a  little  of  the  steaming  liquid  on 
the  baby  who  was  playing  on  the  floor.  She  hated 
the  baby  because  it  looked  like  her  father.  The 
hot  water  raised  little  white  blisters  on  the  baby's 
red  neck  and  Mabel  Twilly  felt  short,  sharp  twinges 
of  pleasure  at  the  sight.  It  was  the  only  pleasure 
she  had  had  for  four  months. 

"  Why  don't  you  kill  yourself,  Ma?  "  she  con 
tinued.  "  You're  only  in  the  way  here  and  you 
know  it.  It's  just  because  you're  a  mean  old  woman 
and  want  to  make  trouble  for  us  that  you  hang  on." 

Grandma  Twilly  shot  a  dirty  look  at  her  daugh 
ter-in-law.  She  had  always  hated  her.  Stringy 
hair,  Mabel  had.  Dank,  stringy  hair.  Grandma 
Twilly  thought  how1  it  would  look  hanging  at  an 
Indian's  belt.  But  all  that  she  did  was  to  place  her 
tongue  against  her  two  front  teeth  and  make  a  noise 
like  the  bath-room  faucet. 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

Wilbur  Twilly  was  reading  the  paper  by  the  oil 
lamp.  Wilbur  had  watery  blue  eyes  and  cigar  ashes 
all  over  his  knees.  The  third  and  fourth  buttons  of 
his  vest  were  undone.  It  was  too  hideous. 

He  was  conscious  of  his  family  seated  in  chairs 
about  him.  His  mother,  chewing  crumbs.  His 
wife  Mabel,  with  her  stringy  hair,  reading.  His 
sister  Bernice,  with  projecting  front  teeth,  who  sat 
thinking  of  the  man  who  came  every  day  to  take 
away  the  waste  paper.  Bernice  was  wondering 
how  long  it  would  be  before  her  family  would  dis 
cover  that  she  had  been  married  to  this  man  for 
three  years. 

How  Wilbur  hated  them  all.  It  didn't  seem  as 
if  he  could  stand  it  any  longer.  He  wanted  to 
scream  and  stick  pins  into  every  one  of  them  and 
then  rush  out  and  see  the  girl  who  worked  in  his 
office  snapping  rubber-bands  all  day.  He  hated  her 
too,  but  she  wore  side-combs. 

PART  2 

The  street  was  covered  with  slimy  mud.  It  oozed 
out  from  under  Bernice's  rubbers  in  unpleasant 
bubbles  until  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  must  kill 
herself.  Hot  air  coming  out  from  a  steam  laundry. 
Hot,  stifling  air.  Bernice  didn't  work  in  the  laundry 
[10] 


FAMILY  LIFE  IN  AMERICA 

but  she  wished  that  she  did  so  that  the  hot  air 
would  kill  her.  She  wanted  to  be  stifled.  She 
needed  torture  to  be  happy.  She  also  needed  a  good 
swift  clout  on  the  side  of  the  face. 

A  drunken  man  lurched  out  from  a  door-way  and 
flung  his  arms  about  her.  It  was  only  her  husband. 
She  loved  her  husband.  She  loved  him  so  much 
that,  as  she  pushed  him  away  and  into  the  gutter, 
she  stuck  her  little  finger  into  his  eye.  She  also 
untied  his  neck-tie.  It  was  a  bow  neck-tie,  with 
white,  dirty  spots  on  it  and  it  was  wet  with  gin.  It 
didn't  seem  as  if  Bernice  could  stand  it  any  longer. 
All  the  repressions  of  nineteen  sordid  years  behind 
protruding  teeth  surged  through  her  untidy  soul. 
She  wanted  love.  But  it  was  not  her  husband  that 
she  loved  so  fiercely.  It  was  old  Grandfather  Twilly. 
And  he  was  too  dead. 


PART  3 

In  the  dining-room  of  the  Twillys'  house  every 
thing  was  very  quiet.  Even  the  vinegar-cruet  which 
was  covered  with  fly-specks.  Grandma  Twilly  lay 
with  her  head  in  the  baked  potatoes,  poisoned  by 
Mabel,  who,  in  her  turn  had  been  poisoned  by  her 
husband  and  sprawled  in  an  odd  posture  over  the 
china-closet.  Wilbur  and  his  sister  Bernice  had 

[ii] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

just  finished  choking  each  other  to  death  and  be 
tween  them  completely  covered  the  carpet  in  that 
corner  of  the  room  where  the  worn  spot  showed  the 
bare  boards  beneath,  like  ribs  on  a  chicken  carcass. 

Only  the  baby  survived.  She  had  a  mean  face 
and  had  great  spillings  of  Imperial  Granum  down 
her  bib.  As  she  looked  about  her  at  her  family,  a 
great  hate  surged  through  her  tiny  body  and  her 
eyes  snapped  viciously.  She  wanted  to  get  down 
from  her  high-chair  and  show  them  all  how  much 
she  hated  them. 

Bernice's  husband,  the  man  who  came  after  the 
waste  paper,  staggered  into  the  room.  The  tips 
were  off  both  his  shoe-lacings.  The  baby  experi 
enced  a  voluptuous  sense  of  futility  at  the  sight  of 
the  tipless-lacings  and  leered  suggestively  at  her 
uncle-in-law. 

"  We  must  get  the  roof-  fixed,"  said  the  man,  very 
quietly.  "  It  lets  the  sun  in." 


Ill 

THIS   CHILD    KNOWS    THE    ANSWER  — 
DO   YOU? 

WE  are  occasionally  confronted  in  the  adver 
tisements  by  the  picture  of  an  offensively 
bright-looking  little  boy,  fairly  popping  with  in 
formation,  who,  it  is  claimed  in  the  text,  knows  all 
the  inside  dope  on  why  fog  forms  in  beads  on  a 
woolen  coat,  how  long  it  would  take  to  crawl  to  the 
moon  on  your  hands  and  knees,  and  what  makes 
oysters  so  quiet. 

The  taunting  catch-line  of  the  advertisement  is: 
"This  Child  Knows  the  Answer  — Do  You?  "  and 
the  idea  is  to  shame  you  into  buying  a  set  of  books 
containing  answers  to  all  the  questions  in  the  world 
except  the  question  "  Where  is  the  money  coming 
from  to  buy  the  books?  " 

Any  little  boy  knowing  all  these  facts  would  un 
questionably  be  an  asset  in  a  business  which  special 
ized  in  fog-beads  or  lunar  transportation  novelties, 
but  he  would  be  awful  to  have  about  the  house. 

"  Spencer,"  you  might  say  to  him,  "  where  are 
Daddy's  slippers?  "  To  which  he  would  undoubt- 

[13] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

edly  answer:  "I  don't  know,  Dad/'  (disagreeable 
little  boys  like  that  always  call  their  fathers  "  Dad  " 
and  stand  with  their  feet  wide  apart  and  their  hands 
in  their  pockets  like  girls  playing  boys'  roles  on  the 
stage)  "  but  I  do  know  this,  that  all  the  Nordic 
peoples  are  predisposed  to  astigmatism  because  of 
the  glare  of  the  sun  on  the  snow,  and  that,  further 
more,  if  you  were  to  place  a  common  ordinary  mar 
ble  in  a  glass  of  hike-warm  cider  there  would  be  a 
precipitation  which,  on  pouring  off  the  cider,  would 
be  found  to  be  what  we  know  as  parsley,  just  plain 
parsley  which  Cook  uses  every  night  in  preparing 
our  dinner." 

With  little  ones  like  this  around  the  house,  a 
new  version  of  "  The  Children's  Hour  "  will  have 
to  be  arranged,  and  it  might  as  well  be  done  now 
and  got  over  with. 

The  Well-Injormed  Children's  Hour 

Between  'the  dark  and  the  day-light, 
When  the  night  is  beginning  to  lower, 
Comes  a  pause  in  the  day's  occupation 
Which  is  known  as  the  children's  hour. 
'Tis  then  appears  tiny  Irving 
With  the  patter  of  little  feet, 
To  tell  us  that  worms  become  dizzy 
At  a  slight  application  of  heat. 

[••4] 


THIS  CHILD  KNOWS  THE  ANSWER 

And  Norma,  the  baby  savant, 
Comes  toddling  up  with  the  news 
That  a  valvular  catch  in  the  larynx 
Is  the  reason  why  Kitty  mews. 
"  Oh  Grandpa,"  cries  lovable  Lester, 
"  Jack  Frost  has  surprised  us  again, 
By  condensing  in  crystal  formation 
The  vapor  which  clings  to  the  pane!  " 
Then  Roger  and  Lispinard  Junior 
Race  pantingly  down  through  the  hall 
To  be  first  with  the  hot  information 
That  bees  shed  their  coats  in  the  Fall. 
No  longer  they  clamor  for  stories 
As  they  cluster  in  fun  'round  my  knee 
But  each  little  darling  is  bursting 
With  a  story  that  he  must  tell  me, 
Giving  reasons  why  daisies  are  sexless 
And  what  makes  the  turtle  so  dour; 
So  it  goes  through  the  horrible  gloaming 
Of  the  Well-informed  Children's  Hour. 


IV 

RULES  AND   SUGGESTIONS   FOR   WATCH 
ING  AUCTION  BRIDGE 

WITH  all  the  expert  advice  that  is  being 
offered  in  print  these  days  about  how  to 
play  games,  it  seems  odd  that  no  one  has  formu 
lated  a  set  of  rules  for  the  spectators.  The  specta 
tors  are  much  more  numerous  than  the  players, 
and  seem  to  need  more  regulation.  As  a  spectator 
of  twenty  years  standing,  versed  in  watching  all 
sports  except  six-day  bicycle  races,  I  offer  the  fruit 
of  my  experience  in  the  form  of  suggestions  and 
reminiscences  which  may  tend  to  clarify  the  situa 
tion,  or,  in  case  there  is  no  situation  which  needs 
clarifying,  to  make  one. 

In  the  event  of  a  favorable  reaction  on  the  part 
of  the  public,  I  shall  form  an,  association,  to  be 
known  as  the  National  Amateur  Audience  Associa 
tion  (or  the  N.  A.  A.  A.,  if  you  are  given  to  slang) 
of  which  I  shall  be  Treasurer.  That's  all  I  ask,  the 
Treasurership. 

This  being  an  off-season  of  the  year  for  outdoor 
sports  (except  walking,  which  is  getting  to  have 
[16] 


WATCHING  AUCTION  BRIDGE 

neither  participants  nor  spectators)  it  seems  best 
to  start  with  a  few  remarks  on  the  strenuous  occu 
pation  of  watching  a  bridge  game.  Bridge- watchers 
are  not  so  numerous  as  football  watchers,  for  in 
stance,  but  they  are  much  more  in  need  of  coordi 
nation  and  it  will  be  the  aim  of  this  article  to  formu 
late  a  standardized  set  of  rules  for  watching  bridge 
which  may  be  taken  as  a  criterion  for  the  whole 
country. 

NUMBER   WHO   MAY   WATCH 

There  should  not  be  more  than  one  watcher  for 
each  table.  When  there  are  two,  or  more,  confusion 
is  apt  to  result  and  no  one  of  the  watchers  can  devote 
his  attention  to  the  game  as  it  should  be  devoted. 
Two  watchers  are  also  likely  to  bump  into  each 
other  as  they  make  their  way  around  the  table 
looking  over  the  players'  shoulders.  If  there  are 
more  watchers  than  there  are  tables,  two  can  share 
one  table  between  them,  one  being  dummy  while 
the  other  watches.  In  this  event  the  first  one  should 
watch  until  the  hand  has  been  dealt  and  six  tricks 
taken,  being  relieved  by  the  second  one  for  the  re 
maining  tricks  and  the  marking  down  of  the  score. 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

PRELIMINARIES 

In  order  to  avoid  any  charge  of  signalling,  it  will 
be  well  for  the  following  conversational  formula  to 
be  used  before  the  game  begins: 

The  ring-leader  of  the  game  says  to  the  fifth 
person:  "Won't  you  join  the  game  and  make  a 
fourth?  I  have  some  work  which  I  really  ought 
to  be  doing." 

The  fifth  person  replies:  "  Oh,  no,  thank  you!  I 
play  a  wretched  game.  I'd  much  rather  sit  here 
and  read,  if  you  don't  mind." 

To  which  the  ring-leader  replies:  "Pray  do." 

After  the  first  hand  has  been  dealt,  the  fifth 
person,  whom  we  shall  now  call  the  "  watcher,"  puts 
down  the  book  and  leans  forward  in  his  (or  her) 
chair,  craning  the  neck  to  see  what  is  in  the  hand 
nearest  him.  The  strain  becoming  too  great,  he 
arises  and  approaches  the  table,  saying:  "Do  you 
mind  if  I  watch  a  bit?  " 

No  answer  need  be  given  to  this,  unless  someone 
at  the  table  has  nerve  enough  to  tell  the  truth. 

PROCEDURE 

The  game  is  now  on.  The  watcher  walks  around 
the  table,  giving  each  hand  a  careful  scrutiny,  groan 
ing  slightly  at  the  sight  of  a  poor  one  and  making 

[18] 


The  watcher  walks  around   the  table,  giving  each  hand   a 
careful  scrutiny. 


WATCHING  AUCTION  BRIDGE 

noises  of  joyful  anticipation  at  the  good  ones.  Stop 
ping  behind  an  especially  unpromising  array  of  cards, 
it  is  well  to  say:  "  Well,  unlucky  at  cards,  lucky 
in  love,  you  know."  This  gives  the  partner  an 
opportunity  to  judge  his  chances  on  the  bid  he  is 
about  to  make,  and  is  perfectly  fair  to  the  other 
side,  too,  for  they  are  not  left  entirely  in  the  dark. 
Thus  everyone  benefits  by  the  remark. 

When  the  bidding  begins,  the  watcher  has  con 
siderable  opportunity  for  effective  work.  Having 
seen  how  the  cards  lie,  he  is  able  to  stand  back 
and  listen  with  a  knowing  expression,  laughing 
at  unjustified  bids  and  urging  on  those  who 
should,  in  his  estimation,  plunge.  At  the  con 
clusion  of  the  bidding  he  should  say:  "  Well, 
we're  off!  " 

As  the  hand  progresses  and  the  players  become 
intent  on  the  game,  the  watcher  may  be  the  cause 
of  no  little  innocent  diversion.  He  may  ask  one  of 
the  players  for  a  match,  or,  standing  behind  the  one 
who  is  playing  the  hand,  he  may  say: 

"  I'll  give  you  three  guesses  as  to  whom  I  ran  into 
on  the  street  yesterday.  Someone  you  all  know. 
Used  to  go  to  school  with  you,  Harry  .  .  .  Light 
hair  and  blue  eyes  .  .  .  Medium  build  .  .  .  Well, 
sir,  it  was  Lew  Milliken.  Yessir,  Lew  Milliken. 
Hadn't  seen  him  for  fifteen  years.  Asked  after  you, 

[19] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

Harry  .  .  .  and  George  too.  And  what  do  you 
think  he  told  me  about  Chick?  " 

Answers  may  or  may  not  be  returned  to  these 
remarks,  according  to  the  good  nature  of  the  players, 
but  in  any  event,  they  serve  their  purpose  of  dis 
traction. 

Particular  care  should  be  taken  that  no  one  of 
the  players  is  allowed  to  make  a  mistake.  The 
watcher,  having  his  mind  free,  is  naturally  in  a 
better  position  to  keep  track  of  matters  of  sequence 
and  revoking.  Thus,  he  may  say: 

"  The  lead  was  over  here,  George,"  or 

"I  think  that  you  refused  spades  a  few  hands 
ago,  Lillian." 

Of  course,  there  are  some  watchers  who  have  an 
inherited  delicacy  about  offering  advice  or  talking 
to  the  players.  Some  people  are  that  way.  They 
are  interested  in  the  game,  and  love  to  watch  but 
they  feel  that  they  ought  not  to  interfere.  I  had 
a  cousin  who  just  wouldn't  talk  while  a  hand  was 
being  played,  and  so,  as  she  had  to  do  something, 
she  hummed.  She  didn't  hum  very  well,  and  her 
program  was  limited  to  the  first  two  lines  of  "  How 
Firm  a  Foundation,"  but  she  carried  it  off  very  well 
and  often  got  the  players  to  humming  it  along  with 
her.  She  could  also  drum  rather  well  with  her 
fingers  on  the  back  of  the  chair  of  one  of  the  players 

[20] 


WATCHING  AUCTION  BRIDGE 

while  looking  over  his  shoulder.  "  How  Firm  a 
Foundation  "  didn't  lend  itself  very  well  to  drum 
ming;  so  she  had  a  little  patrol  that  she  worked  up 
all  by  herself,  beginning  soft,  like  a  drum  corps  in 
the  distance,  and  getting  louder  and  louder,  finally 
dying  away  again  so  that  you  could  barely  hear  it. 
It  was  wonderful  how  she  could  do  it  —  and  still 
go  on  living. 

Those  who  feel  this  way  about  talking  while  others 
are  playing  bridge  have  a  great  advantage  over  my 
cousin  and  her  class  if  they  can  play  the  piano. 
They  play  ever  so  softly,  in  order  not  to  disturb, 
but  somehow  or  other  you  just  know  that  they  are 
there,  and  that  the  next  to  last  note  in  the  coda  is 
going  to  be  very  sour. 

But,  of  course,  the  piano  work  does  not  technically 
come  under  the  head  of  watching,  although  when 
there  are  two  watchers  to  a  table,  one  may  go  over 
to  the  piano  while  she  is  dummy. 

But  your  real  watcher  will  allow  nothing  to  inter 
fere  with  his  conscientious  following  of  the  game, 
and  it  is  for  real  watchers  only  that  these  sugges 
tions  have  been  formulated.  The  minute  you  get 
out  of  the  class  of  those  who  have  the  best  interests 
of  the  game  at  heart,  you  become  involved  in  dilet 
tantism  and  amateurishness,  and  the  whole  sport  of 
bridge-watching  falls  into  disrepute. 

[21] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

The  only  trouble  with  the  game  as  it  now  stands 
is  the  risk  of  personal  injury.  This  can  be  elimi 
nated  by  the  watcher  insisting  on  each  player  being 
frisked  for  weapons  before  the  game  begins  and 
cultivating  a  good  serviceable  defense  against  ordi 
nary  forms  of  fistic  attack. 


[22] 


A  CHRISTMAS  SPECTACLE 

For  Use  in  Christmas  Eve  Entertainments  in  the 
Vestry 

AT  the  opening  of  the  entertainment  the  Super 
intendent  will  step  into  the  footlights,  recover 
his  balance  apologetically,  and  say: 

"  Boys  and  girls  of  the  Intermediate  Department, 
parents  and  friends:  I  suppose  you  all  know  why 
we  are  here  tonight.  (At  this  point  the  audience 
will  titter  apprehensively).  Mrs.  Drury  and  her 
class  of  little  girls  have  been  working  very  hard 
to  make  this  entertainment  a  success,  and  I  am  sure 
that  everyone  here  to-night  is  going  to  have  what 
I  overheard  one  of  my  boys  the  other  day  calling 
'some  good  time.'  (Indulgent  laughter  from  the 
little  boys).  And  may  I  add  before  the  curtain  goes 
up  that  immediately  after  the  entertainment  we 
want  you  all  to  file  out  into  the  Christian  En 
deavor  room,  where  there  will  be  a  Christmas  tree, 
'with  all  the  fixin's,'  as  the  boys  say."  (Shrill 
whistling  from  the  little  boys  and  immoderate  ap 
plause  from  everyone). 

[23] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

There  will  then  be  a  wait  of  twenty-five  minutes, 
while  sounds  of  hammering  and  dropping  may  be 
heard  from  behind  the  curtains.  The  Boys'  Club 
orchestra  will  render  the  "  Poet  and  Peasant  Over 
ture  "  four  times  in  succession,  each  time  differently. 

At  last  one  side  of  the  curtains  will  be  drawn 
back;  the  other  will  catch  on  something  and  have 
to  be  released  by  hand;  someone  will  whisper 
loudly,  "  Put  out  the  lights,"  following  which  the 
entire  house  will  be  plunged  into  darkness.  Amid 
catcalls  from  the  little  boys,  the  footlights  will  at 
last  go  on,  disclosing: 

The  windows  in  the  rear  of  the  vestry  rather 
ineffectively  concealed  by  a  group  of  small  fir  trees 
on  standards,  one  of  which  has  already  fallen  over, 
leaving  exposed  a  corner  of  the  map  of  Palestine 
and  the  list  of  gold-star  classes  for  November.  In 
the  center  of  the  stage  is  a  larger  tree,  undecorated, 
while  at  the  extreme  left,  invisible  to  everyone  in 
the  audience  except  those  sitting  at  the  extreme 
right,  is  an  imitation  fireplace,  leaning  against  the 
wall. 

Twenty-five  seconds  too  early  little  Flora  Roches 
ter  will  prance  out  from  the  wings,  uttering  the  first 
shrill  notes  of  a  song,  and  will  have  to  be  grabbed 
by  eager  hands  and  pulled  back.  Twenty-four 
seconds  later  the  piano  will  begin  "  The  Return  of 

[24] 


A  CHRISTMAS  SPECTACLE 

the  Reindeer  "  with  a  powerful  accent  on  the  first 
note  of  each  bar,  and  Flora  Rochester,  Lillian  Mc- 
Nulty,  Gertrude  Hamingham  and  Martha  Wrist  will 
swirl  on,  dressed  in  white,  and  advance  heavily  into 
the  footlights,  which  will  go  out. 

There  will  then  be  an  interlude  while  Mr.  Neff, 
the  sexton,  adjusts  the  connection,  during  which 
the  four  little  girls  stand  undecided  whether  to 
brave  it  out  or  cry.  As  a  compromise  they  giggle 
and  are  herded  back  into  the  wings  by  Mrs.  Drury, 
amid  applause.  When  the  lights  go  on  again,  the 
applause  becomes  deafening,  and  as  Mr.  Neff  walks 
triumphantly  away,  the  little  boys  in  the  audience 
will  whistle:  "There  she  goes,  there  she  goes,  all 
dressed  up  in  her  Sunday  clothes!  " 

"  The  Return  of  the  Reindeer  "  will  be  started 
again  and  the  show-girls  will  reappear,  this  time 
more  gingerly  and  somewhat  dispirited.  They  will, 
however,  sing  the  following,  to  the  music  of  the 
"  Ballet  Pizzicato  "  from  "  Sylvia  ": 

"We  greet  you,  we  greet  you, 
On  this  Christmas  Eve  so  fine. 
We  greet  you,  we  greet  you, 
And  wish  you  a  good  time." 

They  will  then  turn  toward  the  tree  and  Flora 
Rochester  will  advance,  hanging  a  silver  star  on  one 

[25] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

of  the  branches,  meanwhile  reciting  a  verse,  the 
only  distinguishable  words  of  which  are:  "/  am 
Faith  so  strong  and  pure  —  " 

At  the  conclusion  of  her  recitation,  the  star  will 
fall  off. 

Lillian  McNulty  will  then  step  forward  and  hang 
her  star  on  a  branch,  reading  her  lines  in  clear 
tones: 

"  And  I  am  Hope,  a  virtue  great, 

My  gift  to  Christmas  now  I  make, 

That   children   and   grown-ups    may    hope   today 

That  tomorrow  will  be  a  merry  Christmas  Day" 

The  hanging  of  the  third  star  will  be  consum 
mated  by  Gertrude  Hamingham,  who  will  get  as  far 
as  "  Sweet  Charity  I  bring  to  place  upon  the 
tree  —  "  at  which  point  the  strain  will  become  too 
great  and  she  will  forget  the  remainder.  After 
several  frantic  glances  toward  the  wings,  from 
which  Mrs.  Drury  is  sending  out  whispered  mes 
sages  to  the  effect  that  the  next  line  begins,  "  My 
message  bright  —  "  Gertrude  will  disappear,  crying 
softly. 

After  the  morale  of  the  cast  has  been  in  some 

measure  restored  by  the  pianist,  who,  with  great 

presence  of  mind,  plays  a  few  bars  of  "  Will  There 

Be  Any  Stars  In  My  Crown?  "  to  cover  up  Ger- 

[26] 


'Round  and  'round  the  tree  I  go." 


A  CHRISTMAS  SPECTACLE 

trude's  exit,  Martha  Wrist  will  unleash  a  rope  of 
silver  tinsel  from  the  foot  of  the  tree,  and,  stringing 
it  over  the  boughs  as  she  skips  around  in  a  circle, 
will  say,  with  great  assurance: 

" '  Round  and  'round  the  tree  I  go, 
Through  the  holly  and  the  snow 
Bringing  love  and  Christmas  cheer 
Through  the  happy  year  to  come." 

At  this  point  there  will  be  a  great  commotion 
and  jangling  of  sleigh-bells  off-stage,  and  Mr. 
Creamer,  rather  poorly  disguised  as  Santa  Claus, 
will  emerge  from  the  opening  in  the  imitation  fire 
place.  A  great  popular  demonstration  for  Mr. 
Creamer  will  follow.  He  will  then  advance  to  the 
footlights,  and,  rubbing  his  pillow  and  ducking  his 
knees  to  denote  joviality,  will  say  thickly  through 
his  false  beard: 

"Well,  well,  well,  what  have  we  here?  A  lot 
of  bad  little  boys  and  girls  who  aren't  going  to 
get  any  Christmas  presents  this  year?  (Nervous 
laughter  from  the  little  boys  and  girls).  Let  me 
see,  let  me  see !  I  have  a  note  here  from  Dr.  Whid- 
den.  Let's  see  what  it  says.  (Reads  from  a  paper 
on  which  there  is  obviously  nothing  written).  '  If 
you  and  the  young  people  of  the  Intermediate  De 
partment  will  come  into  the  Christian  Endeavor 

[27] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

room,  I  think  we  may  have  a  little  surprise  for  you. 
.  .  .'  Well,  well,  well!  What  do  you  suppose  it 
can  be?  (Cries  of  "I  know,  I  know!  "  from  so 
phisticated  ones  in  the  audience).  Maybe  it  is  a 
bottle  of  castor-oil!  (Raucous  jeers  from  the  little 
boys  and  elaborately  simulated  disgust  on  the  part 
of  the  little  girls.)  Well,  anyway,  suppose  we  go 
out  and  see?  Now  if  Miss  Liftnagle  will  oblige  us 
with  a  little  march  on  the  piano,  we  will  all  form 
in  single  file  —  " 

At  this  point  there  will  ensue  a  stampede  toward 
the  Christian  Endeavor  room,  in  which  chairs  will 
be  broken,  decorations  demolished,  and  the  protest 
ing  Mr.  Creamer  badly  hurt. 

This  will  bring  to  a  close  the  first  part  of  the 
entertainment. 


[28] 


VI 
HOW   TO   WATCH   A   CHESS-MATCH 

SECOND  in  the  list  of  games  which  it  is  neces 
sary  for  every  sportsman  to  know  how  to  watch 
comes  chess.  If  you  don't  know  how  to  watch 
chess,  the  chances  are  that  you  will  never  have  any 
connection  with  the  game  whatsoever.  You  would 
not,  by  any  chance,  be  playing  it  yourself. 

I  know  some  very  nice  people  that  play  chess, 
mind  you,  and  I  wouldn't  have  thought  that  I  was 
in  any  way  spoofing  at  the  game.  I  would  sooner 
spoof  at  the  people  who  engineered  the  Panama 
Canal  or  who  are  drawing  up  plans  for  the  vehicular 
tunnel  under  the  Hudson  River.  I  am  no  man  to 
make  light  of  chess  and  its  adherents,  although  they 
might  very  well  make  light  of  me.  In  fact,  they 
have. 

But  what  I  say  is,  that  taking  society  by  and 
large,  man  and  boy,  the  chances  are  that  chess 
would  be  the  Farmer-Labor  Party  among  the  con 
testants  for  sporting  honors. 

Now,  since  it  is  settled  that  you  probably  will 
not  want  to  play  chess,  unless  you  should  be  laid 

[29] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

up  with  a  bad  knee-pan  or  something,  it  follows  that, 
if  you  want  to  know  anything  about  the  sport  at  all, 
you  will  have  to  watch  it  from  the  side-lines.  That 
is  what  this  series  of  lessons  aims  to  teach  you  to 
do,  (of  course,  if  you  are  going  to  be  nasty  and 
say  that  you  don't  want  even  to  watch  it,  why  all 
this  time  has  been  wasted  on  my  part  as  well  as 
on  yours). 

How  To  FIND  A  GAME  To  WATCH 

The  first  problem  confronting  the  chess  spec 
tator  is  to  find  some  people  who  are  playing.  The 
bigger  the  city,  the  harder  it  is  to  find  anyone 
indulging  in  chess.  In  a  small  town  you  can  usually 
go  straight  to  Wilbur  Tatnuck's  General  Store,  and 
be  fairly  sure  of  finding  a  quiet  game  in  progress 
over  behind  the  stove  and  the  crate  of  pilot-biscuit, 
but  as  you  draw  away  from  the  mitten  district  you 
find  the  sporting  instinct  of  the  population  cropping 
out  in  other  lines  and  chess  becoming  more  and  more 
restricted  to  the  sheltered  corners  of  Y.  M.  C.  A. 
club-rooms  and  exclusive  social  organizations. 

However,  we  shall  have  to  suppose,  in  order  to 
get  any  article  written  at  all,  that  you  have  found 
two  people  playing  chess  somewhere.  They  prob 
ably  will  neither  see  nor  hear  you  as  you  come  up 

[30] 


HOW  TO  WATCH  A  CHESS-MATCH 

on  them  so  you  can  stand  directly  behind  the  one 
who  is  defending  the  south  goal  without  fear  of 
detection. 


THE  DETAILS  OF  THE  GAME 

At  first  you  may  think  that  they  are  both  dead, 
but  a  mirror  held  to  the  lips  of  the  nearest  contest 
ant  will  probably  show  moisture  (unless,  of  course, 
they  really  should  be  dead,  which  would  be  a  hor 
rible  ending  for  a  little  lark  like  this.  I  once 
heard  of  a  murderer  who  propped  his  two  victims 
up  against  a  chess  board  in  sporting  attitudes  and 
was  able  to  get  as  far  as  Seattle  before  his  crime 
was  discovered). 

Soon  you  will  observe  a  slight  twitching  of  an 
eye-lid  or  a  moistening  of  the  lips  and  then,  like 
a  greatly  retarded  moving-picture  of  a  person  pass 
ing  the  salt,  one  of  the  players  will  lift  a  chess-man 
from  one  spot  on  the  board  and  place  it  on  another 
spot. 

It  would  be  best  not  to  stand  too  close  to  the 
board  at  this  time  as  you  are  are  likely  to  be  tram 
pled  on  in  the  excitement.  For  this  action  that 
you  have  just  witnessed  corresponds  to  a  run  around 
right  end  in  a  football  game  or  a  two-bagger  in 
baseball,  and  is  likely  to  cause  considerable  enthu- 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

siasm  on  the  one  hand  and  deep  depression  on  the 
other.  They  may  even  forget  themselves  to  the 
point  of  shifting  their  feet  or  changing  the  hands 
on  which  they  are  resting  their  foreheads.  Almost 
anything  is  liable  to  happen. 

When  the  commotion  has  died  down  a  little,  it 
will  be  safe  for  you  to  walk  around  and  stand  be 
hind  the  other  player  and  wait  there  for  the  next 
move.  While  waiting  it  would  be  best  to  stand 
with  the  weight  of  your  body  evenly  distributed 
between  your  two  feet,  for  you  will  probably  be 
standing  there  a  long  time  and  if  you  bear  down 
on  one  foot  all  of  the  time,  that  foot  is  bound  to 
get  tired.  A  comfortable  stance  for  watching  chess 
is  with  the  feet  slightly  apart  (perhaps  a  foot  or  a 
foot  and  a  half),  with  a  slight  bend  at  the  knees 
to  rest  'the  legs  and  the  weight  of  the  body  thrown 
forward  on  the  balls  of  the  feet.  A  rhythmic  rising 
on  the  toes,  holding  the  hands  behind  the  back,  the 
head  well  up  and  the  chest  out,  introduces  a  note 
of  variety  into  the  position  which  will  be  welcome 
along  about  dusk. 

Not  knowing  anything  about  the  game,  you  will 
perhaps  find  it  difficult  at  first  to  keep  your  atten 
tion  on  the  board.  This  can  be  accomplished  by 
means  of  several  little  optical  tricks.  For  instance, 
if  you  look  at  the  black  and  white  squares  on  the 

[32] 


HOW  TO  WATCH  A  CHESS-MATCH 

board  very  hard  and  for  a  very  long  time,  they  will 
appear  to  jump  about  and  change  places.  The 
black  squares  will  rise  from  the  board  about  a 
quarter  of  an  inch  and  slightly  overlap  the  white 
ones.  Then,  if  you  change  focus  suddenly,  the 
white  squares  will  do  the  same  thing  to  the  black 
ones.  And  finally,  after  doing  this  until  someone 
asks  you  what  you  are  looking  cross-eyed  for,  if 
you  will  shut  your  eyes  tight  you  will  see  an  exact 
reproduction  of  the  chess-board,  done  in  pink  and 
green,  in  your  mind's  eye.  By  this  time,  the  play 
ers  will  be  almost  ready  for  another  move. 

This  will  make  two  moves  that  you  have  watched. 
It  is  now  time  to  get  a  little  fancy  work  into  your 
game.  About  an  hour  will  have  already  gone  by 
and  you  should  be  so  thoroughly  grounded  in  the 
fundamentals  of  chess  watching  that  you  can  pro 
ceed  to  the  next  step. 

Have  some  one  of  your  friends  bring  you  a  chair, 
a  table  and  an  old  pyrography  outfit,  together  with 
some  book-ends  on  which  to  burn  a  design. 

Seat  yourself  at  the  table  in  the  chair  and  (if  I 
remember  the  process  correctly)  squeeze  the  bulb 
attached  to  the  needle  until  the  latter  becomes  red 
hot.  Then,  grasping  the  book-ends  in  the  left  hand, 
carefully  trace  around  the  pencilled  design  with 
the  point  of  the  needle.  It  probably  will  be  a  pic- 

[33] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

ture  of  the  Lion  of  Lucerne,  and  you  will  let  the 
needle  slip  on  the  way  round  the  face,  giving  it  the 
appearance  of  having  shaved  in  a  Pullman  that 
morning.  But  that  really  won't  make  any  differ 
ence,  for  the  whole  thing  is  not  so  much  to  do  a 
nice  pair  of  book-ends  as  to  help  you  along  in 
watching  the  chess-match. 

If  you  have  any  scruples  against  burning  wood, 
you  may  knit  something,  or  paste  stamps  in  an 
album. 

And  before  you  know  it,  the  game  will  be  over 
and  you  can  put  on  your  things  and  go  home. 


[34] 


VII 

WATCHING    BASEBALL 
D.  A.  C.  NEWS 

EIGHTEEN  men  play  a  game  of  baseball  and 
eighteen  thousand  watch  them,  and  yet  those 
who  play  are  the  only  ones  who  have  any 
official  direction  in  the  matter  of  rules  and  regula 
tions.  The  eighteen  thousand  are  allowed  to  run 
wild.  They  don't  have  even  a  Spalding's  Guide  con 
taining  group  photographs  of  model  organizations 
of  fans  in  Fall  River,  Mass.,  or  the  Junior  Rooters 
of  Lyons,  Nebraska.  Whatever  course  of  be 
havior  a  fan  follows  at  a  game  he  makes  up  for 
himself.  This  is,  of  course,  ridiculous. 

The  first  set  of  official  rulings  for  spectators  at 
baseball  games  has  been  formulated  and  is  here 
with  reproduced.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  in  the 
general  clean-up  which  the  game  is  undergoing, 
the  grandstand  and  bleachers  will  not  resent  a  little 
dictation  from  the  authorities. 

In  the  first  place,  there  is  the  question  of  shouting 
encouragement,  or  otherwise,  at  the  players.  There 

[35] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

must  be  no  more  random  screaming.  It  is  of  course 
understood  that  the  players  are  entirely  dependent 
on  the  advice  offered  them  from  the  stands  for  their 
actions  in  the  game,  and  how  is  a  batter  to  know 
what  to  do  if,  for  instance,  he  hears  a  little  man  in 
the  bleachers  shouting,  "  Wait  for  'em,  Wally! 
Wait  for  'em,"  and  another  little  man  in  the  south 
stand  shouting  "  Take  a  crack  at  the  first  one, 
Wally!  "  ?  What  would  you  do?  What  would 
Lincoln  have  done? 

The  official  advisers  in  the  stands  must  work 
together.  They  must  remember  that  as  the  batter 
advances  toward  the  plate  he  is  listening  for  them 
to  give  him  his  instructions,  and  if  he  hears  con 
flicting  advice  there  is  no  telling  what  he  may  do. 
He  may  even  have  to  decide  for  himself. 

Therefore,  before  each  player  goes  to  bat,  there 
should  be  a  conference  among  the  fans  who  have 
ideas  on  what  his  course  of  action  should  be,  and 
as  soon  as  a  majority  have  come  to  a  decision,  the 
advice  should  be  shouted  to  the  player  in  unison 
under  the  direction  of  a  cheer-leader.  If  there  are 
any  dissenting  opinions,  they  may  be  expressed  in 
a  minority  report. 

In  the  matter  of  hostile  remarks  addressed  at  an 
unpopular  player  on  the  visiting  team  it  would 
probably  be  better  to  leave  the  wording  entirely 

[36] 


WATCHING  BASEBALL 

to  the  individual  fans.  Each  man  has  his  own 
talents  in  this  sort  of  thing  and  should  be  allowed 
to  develop  them  along  natural  lines.  In  such  crises 
as  these  in  which  it  becomes  necessary  to  rattle 
the  opposing  pitcher  or  prevent  the  visiting  catcher 
from  getting  a  difficult  foul,  all  considerations  of 
good  sportsmanship  should  be  discarded.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  it  is  doubtful  if  good  sportsmanship 
should  ever  be  allowed  to  interfere  with  the  fan's 
participation  in  a  contest.  The  game  must  be  kept 
free  from  all  softening  influences. 

One  of  the  chief  duties  of  the  fan  is  to  engage 
in  arguments  with  the  man  behind  him.  This 
department  of  the  game  has  been  allowed  to  run 
down  fearfully.  A  great  many  men  go  to  a  ball 
game  today  and  never  speak  a  word  to  anyone 
other  than  the  members  of  their  own  party  or  an 
occasional  word  of  cheer  to  a  player.  This  is 
nothing  short  of  craven. 

An  ardent  supporter  of  the  home-team  should 
go  to  a  game  prepared  to  take  offense,  no  matter 
what  happens.  He  should  be  equipped  with  a  stock 
of  ready  sallies  which  can  be  used  regardless  of 
what  the  argument  is  about  or  what  has  gone 
before  in  the  exchange  of  words.  Among  the  more 
popular  nuggets  of  repartee,  effective  on  all  occa 
sions,  are  the  following: 

[37] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

"Oh,  is  that  so?" 

"  Eah?  " 

"  How  do  you  get  that  way?  " 

"  Oh,  is  that  so?  " 

"  So  are  you." 

"  Aw,  go  have  your  hair  bobbed." 

"  Oh,  is  that  so?  " 

"  Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?  " 

"  Who  says  so?  " 

"  Eah?    Well,  Fll  Cincinnati  you." 

"  Oh,  is  that  so?  " 

Any  one  of  these,  if  hurled  with  sufficient  venom, 
is  good  for  ten  points.  And  it  should  always  be 
borne  in  mind  that  'there  is  no  danger  of  physical 
harm  resulting  from  even  the  most  ferocious-sound 
ing  argument.  Statistics  gathered  by  the  War 
Department  show  that  the  percentage  of  actual 
blows  struck  in  grandstand  arguments  is  one  in 
every  43,000,000. 

For  those  fans  who  are  occasionally  obliged  to 
take  inexperienced  lady-friends  to  a  game,  a  special 
set  of  rules  has  been  drawn  up.  These  include  the 
compulsory  purchase  of  tickets  in  what  is  called 
the  "  Explaining  Section,"  a  block  of  seats  set  aside 
by  the  management  for  the  purpose.  The  view  of 
the  diamond  from  this  section  is  not  very  good,  but 
it  doesn't  matter,  as  the  men  wouldn't  see  anything 

[38] 


WATCHING  BASEBALL 

of  the  game  anyway  and  the  women  can  see  just 
enough  to  give  them  material  for  questions  and 
to  whet  their  curiosity.  As  everyone  around  you  is 
answering  questions  and  trying  to  explain  score- 
keeping,  there  is  not  the  embarrassment  which  is 
usually  attendant  on  being  overheard  by  unattached 
fans  in  the  vicinity.  There  is  also  not  the  distract 
ing  sound  of  breaking  pencils  and  modified  cursing 
to  interfere  with  unattached  fans'  enjoyment  of  the 
game. 

Absolutely  no  gentlemen  with  uninformed  ladies 
will  be  admitted  to  the  main  stand.  In  order  to 
enforce  this  regulation,  a  short  examination  on  the 
rudiments  of  the  game  will  take  place  at  the  gate, 
in  which  ladies  will  be  expected  to  answer  briefly  the 
following  questions:  (Women  examiners  will  be  in 
attendance.) 

1.  What  game  is  it  that  is  being  played  on  this 
field? 

2.  How  many  games  have  you  seen  before? 

3.  What  is  (a)  a  pitcher;  (b)  a  base;  (c)  a  bat? 

4.  What  color  uniform  does  the  home-team  wear? 

5.  What  is  the  name  of  the  home- team? 

6.  In  the  following  sentence,  cross  out  the  in 
correct  statements,  leaving  the  correct  one:   The 
catcher  stands  (i)  directly  behind  the  pitcher  in  the 
pitcher's  box;   (2)  at  the  gate  taking  tickets;   (3) 

[39] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

behind  the  batter;   (4)  at  the  bottom  of  the  main 
aisle,  selling  ginger-ale. 

7.  What  again  is  the  name  of  the  game  you 
expect  to  see  played? 

8.  Do  you  cry  easily? 

9.  Is  there  anything  else  you  would  rather  be 
doing  this  afternoon? 

10.  If  so,  please  go  and  do  it. 

It  has  been  decided  that  the  American  baseball 
fan  should  have  a  distinctive  dress.  A  choice  has 
been  made  from  among  the  more  popular  styles  and 
the  following  has  been  designated  as  regulation,  em 
bodying,  as  it  does,  the  spirit  and  tone  of  the  great 
national  pastime. 

Straw  hat,  worn  well  back  on  the  head;  one  cigar, 
unlighted,  held  between  teeth;  coat  held  across 
knees;  vest  worn  but  unbuttoned  and  open,  dis 
playing  both  a  belt  and  suspenders,  with  gold  watch- 
chain  connecting  the  bottom  pockets. 

The  vest  may  be  an  added  expense  to  certain  fans 
who  do  not  wear  vests  during  the  summer  months, 
but  it  has  been  decided  that  it  is  absolutely  essential 
to  the  complete  costume,  and  no  true  baseball  en 
thusiast  will  hesitate  in  complying. 


[40] 


VIII 

HOW   TO    BE   A   SPECTATOR   AT 
SPRING   PLANTING 


danger  in  watching  gardening,  as  in  watch- 
JL  ing  many  other  sports,  is  that  you  may  be 
drawn  into  it  yourself.  This  you  must  fight  against. 
Your  sinecure  standing  depends  on  a  rigid  absti 
nence  from  any  of  the  work  itself.  Once  you  stoop 
over  to  hold  one  end  of  a  string  for  a  groaning 
planter,  once  you  lift  one  shovelful  of  earth  or  toss 
out  one  stone,  you  become  a  worker  and  a  worker 
is  an  abomination  in  the  eyes  of  the  true  garden 
watcher. 

A  fence  is,  therefore,  a  great  help.  You  may  take 
up  your  position  on  the  other  side  of  the  fence  from 
the  garden  and  lean  heavily  against  it  smoking  a 
pipe,  or  you  may  even  sit  on  it.  Anything  so  long  as 
you  are  out  of  helping  distance  and  yet  near  enough 
so  that  the  worker  will  be  within  easy  range  of 
your  voice.  You  ought  to  be  able  to  point  a  great 
deal,  also. 

There  is  much  to  be  watched  during  the  early 
stages  of  garden-preparation.  Nothing  is  so  satis- 

[41] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

fying  as  to  lean  ruminatingly  against  a  fence  and 
observe  the  slow,  rhythmic  swing  of  the  digger's 
back  or  hear  the  repeated  scraping  of  the  shovel- 
edge  against  some  buried  rock.  It  sometimes  is  a 
help  to  the  digger  to  sing  a  chanty,  just  to  give  him 
the  beat.  And  then  sometimes  it  is  not.  He  will 
tell  you  in  case  he  doesn't  need  it. 

There  is  always  a  great  deal  for  the  watcher  to 
do  in  the  nature  of  comment  on  the  soil.  This  is 
especially  true  if  it  is  a  new  garden  or  has  never  been 
cultivated  before  by  the  present  owner.  The  idea 
is  to  keep  the  owner  from  becoming  too  sanguine 
over  the  prospects. 

"  That  soil  looks  pretty  clayey,"  is  a  good  thing 
to  say.  (It  is  hard  to  say,  clearly,  too.  You  had 
better  practise  it  before  trying  it  out  on  the 
gardener). 

"I  don't  think  that  you'll  have  much  luck  with 
potatoes  in  that  kind  of  earth,"  is  another  helpful 
approach.  It  is  even  better  to  go  at  it  the  other  way, 
finding  out  first  what  the  owner  expects  to  plant. 
It  may  be  that  he  isn't  going  to  plant  any  potatoes, 
and  then  there  you  are,  stuck  with  a  perfectly  dandy 
prediction  which  has  no  bearing  on  the  case.  It  is 
time  enough  to  pull  it  after  he  has  told  you  that 
he  expects  to  plant  peas,  beans,  beets,  corn.  Then 
you  can  interrupt  him  and  say:  "  Corn?  "  incredu- 

[42] 


WATCHING  A  SPRING  PLANTING 

lously.  "  You  don't  expect  to  get  any  corn  in  that 
soil  do  you?  Don't  you  know  that  corn  requires 
a  large  percentage  of  bi-carbonate  of  soda  in  the  soil, 
and  I  don't  think,  from  the  looks,  that  there  is  an 
ounce  of  soda  bi-carb.  in  your  whole  plot.  Even 
if  the  corn  does  come  up,  it  will  be  so  tough  you  can't 
eat  it." 

Then  you  can  laugh,  and  call  out  to  a  neighbor, 
or  even  to  the  man's  wife:  "  Hey,  what  do  you 
know?  Steve  here  thinks  he's  going  to  get  some 
corn  up  in  this  soil!  " 

The  watcher  will  find  plenty  to  do  when  the  time 
comes  to  pick  the  stones  out  of  the  freshly  turned- 
over  earth.  It  is  his  work  to  get  upon  a  high  place 
where  he  can  survey  the  whole  garden  and  detect 
the  more  obvious  rocks. 

"  Here  is  a  big  fella  over  here,  Steve,"  he  may  say. 
Or:  "  Just  run  your  rake  a  little  over  in  that  corner. 
I'll  bet  you'll  find  a  nest  of  them  there." 

"  Plymouth  Rock  "  is  a  funny  thing  to  call  any 
particularly  offensive  boulder,  and  is  sure  to  get 
a  laugh,  especially  if  you  kid  the  digger  good- 
naturedly  about  being  a  Pilgrim  and  landing  on  it. 
He  may  even  give  it  to  you  to  keep. 

Just  as  a  matter  of  convenience  for  the  worker, 
watchers  have  sometimes  gone  to  the  trouble  of 
keeping  count  of  the  number  of  stones  thrown  out. 

[43] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

This  is  done  by  shouting  out  the  count  after  each 
stone  has  been  tossed.  It  makes  a  sort  of  game  of 
the  thing,  and  in  this  spirit  the  digger  may  be  urged 
on  to  make  a  record. 

"That's  forty-eight,  old  man!  Come  on  now, 
make  her  fifty.  Attaboy,  forty-nine!  Only  one 
more  to  go.  We-want-fifty-we-want-fifty-we-want 
fifty." 

And  not  only  stones  will  be  found,  but  queer 
objects  which  have  got  themselves  buried  in  the 
ground  during  the  winter-months  and  have  become 
metamorphosed,  so  they  are  half  way  between  one 
thing  and  another.  As  the  digger  holds  one  of 
these  objets  dirt  gingerly  between  his  thumb  and 
forefinger  the  watcher  has  plenty  of  opportunity  to 
shout  out: 

"  You'd  better  save  that.  It  may  come  in  handy 
some  day.  What  is  it,  Eddie?  Your  old  beard?  " 

And  funny  cracks  like  that. 

Here  is  where  it  is  going  to  be  difficult  to  keep 
to  your  resolution  about  not  helping.  After  the 
digging,  and  stoning,  and  turning-over  has  been 
done,  and  the  ground  is  all  nice  and  soft  and  loamy, 
the  idea  of  running  a  rake  softly  over  the  susceptible 
surface  and  leaving  a  beautiful  even  design  in  its 
wake,  is  almost  too  tempting  to  be  withstood. 

The  worker  himself  will  do  all  that  he  can  to 

[44] 


Atta  boy,  fort) -nine:    Only  one  more  to  go!" 


WATCHING  A  SPRING  PLANTING 

make  it  hard  for  you.  He  will  rake  with  evident 
delight,  much  longer  than  is  necessary,  back  and 
forth,  across  and  back,  cocking  his  head  and  sur 
veying  the  pattern  and  fixing  it  up  along  the  edges 
with  a  care  which  is  nothing  short  of  insulting  con 
sidering  the  fact  that  the  whole  thing  has  got  to  be 
mussed  up  again  when  the  planting  begins. 

If  you  feel  that  you  can  no  longer  stand  it  without 
offering  to  assist,  get  down  from  the  fence  and  go 
into  your  own  house  and  up  to  your  own  room. 
There  pray  for  strength.  By  the  time  you  come 
down,  the  owner  of  the  garden  ought  to  have  stopped 
raking  and  got  started  on  the  planting. 

Here  the  watcher's  task  is  almost  entirely  ad 
visory.  And,  for  the  first  part  of  the  planting,  he 
should  lie  low  and  say  nothing.  Wait  until  the 
planter  has  got  his  rows  marked  out  and  has  wob 
bled  along  on  his  knees  pressing  the  seeds  into  per 
haps  half  the  length  of  his  first  row.  Then  say: 

"  Hey  there,  Charlie!  YouVe  got  those  rows 
going  the  wrong  way." 

Charlie  will  say  no  he  hasn't.  Then  he  will  ask 
what  you  mean  the  wrong  way. 

"  Why,  you  poor  cod,  youVe  got  them  running 
north  and  south.  They  ought  to  go  east  and  west. 
The  sun  rises  over  there,  doesn't  it?  "  (Charlie 
will  attempt  to  deny  this,  but  you  must  go  right  on.) 

[45] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

"And  it  comes  on  up  behind  that  tree  and  over  my 
roof  and  sets  over  there,  doesn't  it?  "  (By  this 
time,  Charlie  will  be  crying  with  rage.)  "Well, 
just  as  soon  as  your  beans  get  up  an  inch  or  two 
they  are  going  to  cast  a  shadow  right  down  the 
whole  row  and  only  those  in  front  will  ever  get  any 
sun.  You  can't  grow  things  without  sun,  you 
know." 

If  Charlie  takes  you  seriously  and  starts  in  to 
rearrange  his  rows  in  the  other  direction,  you  might 
perhaps  get  down  off  the  fence  and  go  in  the  house. 
You  have  done  enough.  If  he  doesn't  take  you 
seriously,  you  surely  had  better  go  in. 


[46] 


IX 

THE   MANHATTADOR 

ANNOUNCEMENTS  have  been  made  of  a 
bull-fight  to  be  held  in  Madison  Square 
Garden,  New  York,  in  which  only  the  more  humane 
features  of  the  Spanish  institution  are  to  be  re 
tained.  The  bull  will  not  be  killed,  or  even  hurt, 
and  horses  will  not  be  used  as  bait. 

If  a  bull-fight  must  be  held,  this  is  of  course  the 
way  to  hold  it,  but  what  features  are  to  be  sub 
stituted  for  the  playful  gorings  and  stabbings  of 
the  Madrid  system?  Something  must  be  done  to 
enrage  the  bull,  otherwise  he  will  just  sulk  in  a 
corner  or  walk  out  on  the  whole  affair.  Following 
is  a  suggestion  for  the  program  of  events: 

1.  Grand  parade  around  the  ring,  headed  by  a 
brass-band  and  the  mayor  in  matador's  costume. 
Invitations  to  march  in  this  parade  will  be  issued 
to  every  one  in  the  bull-fighting  set  with  the  excep 
tion  of  the  bull,  who  will  be  ignored.     This  will 
make  him  pretty  sore  to  start  with. 

2.  After  the  marchers  have  been  seated,  the  bull 
will  be  led  into  the  ring.      An  organized  cheering 

[47] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

section  among  the  spectators  will  immediately  start 
jeering  him,  whistling,  and  calling  "  Take  off  those 
horns,  we  know  you!  " 

3.  The  picadors  will  now  enter,  bearing  pikes 
with  ticklers  on  the  ends.    These  will  be  brushed 
across  the  bull's  nose  as  the  picadors  rush  past 
him  on  noisy  motor-cycles.    The  noise  of  the  motor 
cycles  is  counted  on  to  irritate  the  bull  quite  as  much 
as  the  ticklers,  as  he  will  probably  be  trying  to 
sleep  at  the  time. 

4.  Enter  the  bandilleros,  carrying  various  ornate 
articles  of  girls'  clothing  (daisy-hat  with  blue  rib 
bons,  pink  sash,  lace  jabot,  etc.)  which  will,  one  by 
one,  be  hung  on  the  bull  when  he  isn't  looking.    In 
order  to  accomplish  this,  one  of  the  bandilleros  will 
engage  the  animal  in  conversation  while  another 
sneaks  up  behind  him  with  the  frippery.    When  he 
is  quite  trimmed,  the  bandilleros  will  withdraw  to 
behind  a  shelter  and  call  him:  "  Lizzie!  " 

5.  By  this  time,  the  bull  will  be  almost  crying 
he  will  be  so  sore.    This  is  the  moment  for  the  en 
trance  of  the  intrepid  matador.    The  matador  will 
wear  an  outing  cap  with  a  cutaway  and  Jaeger 
vest,  and  the  animal  will  become  so  infuriated  by 
this  inexcusable  mesalliance  of  garments  that  he  will 
charge  madly  at  his  antagonist.    The  matador,  who 
will  be  equipped  with  boxing-gloves,  will  feint  with 

[48] 


THE  MANHATTADOR 

his  left  and  pull  the  daisy-hat  down  over  the  bull's 
eyes  with  his  right,  immediately  afterward  stepping 
quickly  to  one  side.  The  bull,  blinded  by  the 
daisies,  will  not  know  where  to  go  next  and  soon  will 
laughingly  admit  that  the  joke  has  been  on  him. 
He  will  then  allow  the  matador  to  jump  on  his  back 
and  ride  around  the  ring,  making  good-natured  at 
tempts  to  unseat  his  rider. 


X 

WHAT    TO    DO    WHILE    THE    FAMILY    IS 
AWAY 

QOMEWHERE  or  other  the  legend  has  sprung 
O  up  that,  as  soon  as  the  family  goes  away  for 
the  summer,  Daddy  brushes  the  hair  over  his  bald 
spot,  ties  up  his  shoes,  and  goes  out  on  a  whirlwind 
trip  through  the  hellish  districts  of  town.  The 
funny  papers  are  responsible  for  this,  just  as  they 
are  responsible  for  the  idea  that  all  millionaires 
are  fat  and  that  Negroes  are  inordinately  fond  of 
watermelons. 

I  will  not  deny  that  for  just  about  four  minutes 
after  the  train  has  left,  bearing  Mother,  Sister, 
Junior,  Ingabog  and  the  mechanical  walrus  on  their 
way  to  Anybunkport,  Daddy  is  suffused  with  a 
certain  queer  feeling  of  being  eleven  years  old  and 
down-town  alone  for  the  first  time  with  fifteen  cents 
to  spend  on  anything  he  wants.  The  city  seems  to 
spread  itself  out  before  him  just  ablaze  with  lights 
and  his  feet  rise  lightly  from  the  ground  as  if  at 
tached  to  toy  balloons.  I  do  not  deny  that  his  first 
move  is  to  straighten  his  tie. 

[So] 


WHEN  THE  FAMILY  IS  AWAY 

But  five  minutes  would  be  a  generous  allowance 
for  the  duration  of  this  foot-loose  elation.  As  he 
leaves  the  station  he  suddenly  becomes  aware  of  the 
fact  that  no  one  else  has  heard  about  his  being 
fancy-free.  Everyone  seems  to  be  going  some 
where  in  a  very  important  manner.  A  great  many 
people,  oddly  enough  seem  to  be  going  home. 
Ordinarily  he  would  be  going  home,  too.  But 
there  would  not  be  much  sense  in  going  home  now, 

without .  But  come,  come,  this  is  no  way  to 

feel!  Buck  up,  man!  How  about  a  wild  oat  or 
two? 

Around  at  the  club  the  doorman  says  that  Mr. 
McNartly  hasn't  been  in  all  afternoon  and  that 
Mr.  Freem  was  in  at  about  four-thirty  but  went  out 
again  with  a  bag.  There  is  no  one  in  the  lounge 
whom  he  ever  saw  before.  A  lot  of  new  members 
must  have  been  taken  in  at  the  last  meeting.  The 
club  is  running  down  fast.  He  calls  up  Eddie  Mas- 
tayer's  office  but  he  has  gone  for  the  day.  Oh, 
well,  someone  will  probably  come  in  for  dinner. 
He  hasn't  eaten  dinner  at  the  club  for  a  long  time 
and  there  will  be  just  time  for  a  swim  before  settling 
down  to  a  nice  piece  of  salmon  steak. 

All  the  new  members  seem  to  be  congregated  now 
in  the  pool  and  they  look  him  over  as  if  he  were  a 
fresh-air  child  being  given  a  day's  outing.  He  be- 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

comes  self-conscious  and  slips  on  the  marble  floor, 
falling  and  hurting  his  shin  quite  badly.  Who  the 
hell  are  these  people  anyway?  And  where  is  the 
old  bunch?  He  emerges  from  the  locker  room 
much  hotter  than  he  was  before  and  in  addition, 
boiling  with  rage. 

Dinner  is  one  of  the  most  depressing  rituals  he 
has  ever  gone  through  with.  Even  the  waiters  seem 
unfamiliar.  Once  he  even  gets  up  and  goes  out 
to  the  front  of  the  building  to  see  if  he  hasn't  got 
into  the  wrong  club-house  by  mistake.  Pretty  soon 
a  terrible  person  whose  name  is  either  Riegle 
or  Ropple  comes  and  sits  down  with  him,  offering 
as  his  share  of  the  conversation  the  dogmatic  an 
nouncement  that  it  has  been  hotter  today  than  it 
was  yesterday.  This  is  denied  with  some  feeling, 
although  it  is  known  to  be  true.  Dessert  is  dis 
pensed  with  for  the  sake  of  getting  away  from 
Riegle  or  Ropple  or  whatever  his  name  is. 

Then  the  first  gay  evening  looms  up  ahead. 
What  to  do?  There  is  nothing  to  prevent  his 
drawing  all  the  money  out  of  the  bank  and  tearing 
the  town  wide  open  from  the  City  Hall  to  the  Sol 
dier's  Monument.  There  is  nothing  to  prevent  his 
formally  introducing  himself  to  some  nice  blonde 
and  watching  her  get  the  meat  out  of  a  lobster-claw. 
There  is  nothing  to  prevent  his  hiring  some  boot- 

[52] 


WHEN  THE  FAMILY  IS  AWAY 

legger  to  anoint  him  with  synthetic  gin  until  he 
glows  like  a  fire-fly  and  imagines  that  he  has  just 
been  elected  Mayor  on  a  Free  Ice-Cream  ticket. 
Absolutely  nothing  stands  in  his  way,  except  a  dis- 
pairing  vision  of  crepe  letters  before  his  eyes  read 
ing:  a  — And  For  What?" 

He  ends  up  by  going  to  the  movies  where  he  falls 
asleep.  Rather  than  go  home  to  the  empty  house 
he  stays  at  the  club.  In  the  morning  he  is  at  the 
office  at  a  quarter  to  seven. 

Now  there  ought  to  be  several  things  that  a  man 
could  do  at  home  to  relieve  the  tedium  of  his  exist 
ence  while  the  family  is  away.  Once  you  get 
accustomed  to  the  sound  of  your  footsteps  on  the 
floors  and  reach  a  state  of  self-control  where  you 
don't  break  down  and  sob  every  time  you  run  into 
a  toy  which  has  been  left  standing  around,  there  are 
lots  of  ways  of  keeping  yourself  amused  in  an 
empty  house. 

You  can  set  the  victrola  going  and  dance.  You 
may  never  have  had  an  opportunity  to  get  off  by 
yourself  and  practice  those  new  steps  without  some 
one's  coming  suddenly  into  the  room  and  making 
you  look  foolish.  (That's  one  big  advantage  about 
being  absolutely  alone  in  a  house.  You  can't  look 
foolish,  no  matter  what  you  do.  You  may  be 
foolish,  but  no  one  except  you  and  your  God  knows 

[S3] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

about  it  and  God  probably  has  a  great  deal  too 
much  to  do  to  go  around  telling  people  how  foolish 
you  were).  So  roll  back  the  rugs  and  put  on 
"  Kalua  "  and,  holding  out  one  arm  in  as  fancy  a 
manner  as  you  wish,  slip  the  other  daintily  about 
the  waist  of  an  imaginary  partner  and  step  out. 
You'd  be  surprised  to  see  how  graceful  you  are. 
Pretty  soon  you  will  get  confidence  to  try  a  few 
tricks.  A  very  nice  one  is  to  stop  in  the  middle 
of  a  step,  point  the  left  toe  delicately  twice  in  time 
to  the  music,  dip,  and  whirl.  It  makes  no  difference 
if  you  fall  on  the  whirl.  Who  cares?  And  when 
you  are  through  dancing  you  can  go  out  to  the 
faucet  and  get  yourself  a  drink  —  provided  the 
water  hasn't  been  turned  off. 

Lots  of  fun  may  also  be  had  by  going  out  into  the 
kitchen  and  making  things  with  whatever  is  left 
in  the  pantry.  There  will  probably  be  plenty  of 
salt  and  nutmegs,  with  boxes  of  cooking  soda, 
tapioca,  corn-starch  and  maybe,  if  you  are  lucky, 
an  old  bottle  of  olives.  Get  out  a  cook-book  and 
choose  something  that  looks  nice  in  the  picture.  In 
place  of  the  ingredients  which  you  do  not  have, 
substitute  those  which  you  do,  thus:  nutmegs  for 
eggs,  tapioca  for  truffles,  corn-starch  and  water  for 
milk,  and  so  forth  and  so  forth.  Then  go  in  and 
set  the  table  according  to  the  instructions  in  the 

[54] 


WHEN  THE  FAMILY  IS  AWAY 

cook-book  for  a  Washington's  Birthday  party,  light 
the  candles,  and  with  one  of  them  set  fire  to  the 
house. 

There  is  probably  a  night-train  for  Anybunkport 
Which  you  can  catch  while  the  place  is  still  burning. 

To  those  male  readers  whose  families  are  away 
for  the  summer: 

Tear  the  above  story  out  along  dotted  line  and 
mail  it  to  the  folks,  writing  in  pencil  across  the  top 
"  This  guy  has  struck  it  about  right."  Then  drop 
around  tonight  at  seven-thirty  to  Eddie's  apart 
ment.  Joe  Reddish,  John  Liftwich,  Harry  Thibault 
and  three  others  will  be  there  and  the  limit  will  be 
fifty  cents.  Game  will  absolutely  break  up  at  one- 
thirty.  No  fooling.  One-thirty  and  not  a  minute 
longer. 


[55] 


XI 
"  ROLL  YOUR  OWN  » 

Inside    Points    on    Building    and    Maintaining    a 
Private  Tennis  Court 

NOW  that  the  Great  War  is  practically  over, 
until  the  next  one  begins  there  isn't  very 
much  that  you  can  do  with  that  large  plot  of 
ground  which  used  to  be  your  war-garden.  It  is 
too  small  for  a  running-track  and  too  large  for 
nasturtiums.  Obviously,  the  only  thing  left  is  a 
tennis-court. 

One  really  ought  to  have  a  tennis-court  of  one's 
own.  Those  at  the  Club  are  always  so  full  that  on 
Saturdays  and  Sundays  the  people  waiting  to  play 
look  like  the  gallery  at  a  Davis  Cup  match,  and 
even  when  you  do  get  located  you  have  two  sets  of 
balls  to  chase,  yours  and  those  of  the  people  in  the 
next  court. 

The  first  thing  is  to  decide  among  yourselves  just 
what  kind  of  court  it  is  to  be.  There  are  three 
kinds:  grass,  clay,  and  corn-meal.  In  Maine, 
gravel  courts  are  also  very  popular.  Father  will 
usually  hold  out  for  a  grass  court  because  it  gives 

[56] 


"  ROLL  YOUR  OWN  " 

a  slower  bounce  to  the  ball  and  Father  isn't  so  quick 
on  the  bounce  as  he  used  to  be.  All  Mother  insists 
on  is  plenty  of  headroom.  Junior  and  Myrtis  will 
want  a  clay  one  because  you  can  dance  on  a  clay 
one  in  the  evening.  The  court  as  finished  will  be 
a  combination  grass  and  dirt,  with  a  little  golden- 
rod  late  in  August. 

A  little  study  will  be  necessary  before  laying  out 
the  court.  I  mean  you  can't  just  go  out  and  mark 
a  court  by  guess-work.  You  must  first  learn  what 
the  dimensions  are  supposed  to  be  and  get  as  near 
to  them  as  is  humanly  possible.  Whereas  there 
might  be  a  slight  margin  for  error  in  some  measure 
ments,  it  is  absolutely  essential  that  both  sides  are 
the  same  length,  otherwise  you  might  end  up  by 
lobbing  back  to  yourself  if  you  got  very  excited. 

The  worst  place  to  get  the  dope  on  how  to 
arrange  a  tennis-court  is  in  the  Encyclopaedia  Bri- 
tannica.  The  article  on  TENNIS  was  evidently 
written  by  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury.  It  be 
gins  by  explaining  that  in  America  tennis  is  called 
"  court  tennis."  The  only  answer  to  that  is, 
"You're  a  cock-eyed  liar!  "  The  whole  article  is 
like  this. 

The  name  "  tennis,"  it  says,  probably  comes  from 
the  French  "  Tenez!  "  meaning  "  Take  it!  Play!  " 
More  likely,  in  my  opinion,  it  is  derived  from  the 

[57] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

Polish  "  Tinith!  "  meaning  "  Go  on,  that  was  not 
outside!  " 

During  the  Fourteenth  Century  the  game  was 
played  by  the  highest  people  in  France.  Louis  X 
died  from  a  chill  contracted  after  playing.  Charles 
V  was  devoted  to  it,  although  he  tried  in  vain  to 
stop  it  as  a  pastime  for  the  lower  classes  (the 
origin  of  the  country-club) ;  Charles  VI  watched  it 
being  played  from  the  room  where  he  was  confined 
during  his  attack  of  insanity  and  Du  Guesclin 
amused  himself  with  it  during  the  siege  of  Dinan. 
And,  although  it  doesn't  say  so  in  the  Encyclopaedia, 
Robert  C.  Benchley,  after  playing  for  the  first  time 
in  the  season  of  1922,  was  so  lame  under  the  right 
shoulder-blade  that  he  couldn't  lift  a  glass  to  his 
mouth. 

This  fascinating  historical  survey  of  tennis  goes 
on  to  say  that  in  the  reign  of  Henri  IV  the  game 
was  so  popular  that  it  was  said  that  "  there  were 
more  tennis-players  in  Paris  than  drunkards  in 
England."  The  drunkards  of  England  were  so 
upset  by  this  boast  that  they  immediately  started 
a  drive  for  membership  with  the  slogan,  "Five 
thousand  more  drunkards  by  April  15,  and  to  Hell 
with  France!  "  One  thing  led  to  another  until  war 
was  declared. 

The  net  does  not  appear  until  the  lyth  century. 

[58] 


"  ROLL  YOUR  OWN  » 

Up  until  that  time  a  rope,  either  fringed  or  tasseled, 
was  stretched  across  the  court.  This  probably  had 
to  be  abandoned  because  it  was  so  easy  to  crawl 
under  it  and  chase  your  opponent.  There  might 
also  have  been  ample  opportunity  for  the  person 
playing  at  the  net  or  at  the  "  rope,"  to  catch  the  eye 
of  the  player  directly  opposite  by  waving  his  rac 
quet  high  in  the  air  and  then  to  kick  him  under  the 
rope,  knocking  him  for  a  loop  while  the  ball  was 
being  put  into  play  in  his  territory.  You  have  to 
watch  these  Frenchmen  every  minute. 

The  Encyclopaedia  Britannica  gives  fifteen  lines 
to  "  Tennis  in  America."  It  says  that  "  few  tennis 
courts  existed  in  America  before  1880,  but  that  now 
there  are  courts  in  Boston,  New  York,  Chicago, 
Tuxedo  and  Lakewood  and  several  other  places." 
Everyone  try  hard  to  think  now  just  where  those 
other  places  are! 

Which  reminds  us  that  one  of  them  is  going  to 
be  in  your  side  yard  where  the  garden  used  to  be. 
After  you  have  got  the  dimensions  from  the  Ency 
clopaedia,  call  up  a  professional  tennis-court  maker 
and  get  him  to  do  the  job  for  you.  Just  tell  him 
that  you  want  "  a  tennis-court." 

Once  it  is  built  the  fun  begins.  According  to  the 
arrangement,  each  member  of  the  family  is  to  have 
certain  hours  during  which  it  belongs  to  them  and 

[59] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

no  one  else.  Thus  the  children  can  play  before 
breakfast  and  after  breakfast  until  the  sun  gets 
around  so  that  the  west  court  is  shady.  Then 
Daddy  and  Mother  and  sprightly  friends  may  take 
it  over.  Later  in  the  afternoon  the  children  have  it 
again,  and  if  there  is  any  light  left  after  dinner 
Daddy  can  take  a  whirl  at  the  ball. 

What  actually  will  happen  is  this:  Right  after 
breakfast  Roger  Beeman,  who  lives  across  the  street 
and  who  is  home  for  the  summer  with  a  couple  of 
college  friends  who  are  just  dandy  looking,  will 
come  over  and  ask  if  they  may  use  the  court  until 
someone  wants  it.  They  will  let  Myrtis  play  with 
them  and  perhaps  Myrtis*  girl-chum  from  West- 
over.  They  will  play  five  sets,  running  into  scores 
like  19-17,  and  at  lunch  time  will  make  plans  for  a 
ride  into  the  country  for  the  afternoon.  Daddy  will 
stick  around  in  the  offing  all  dressed  up  in  his 
tennis-clothes  waiting  to  play  with  Uncle  Ted,  but 
somehow  or  other  every  time  he  approaches  the 
court  the  young  people  will  be  in  the  middle  of  a  set. 

After  lunch,  Lillian  Nieman,  who  lives  three 
houses  down  the  street,  will  come  up  and  ask  if  she 
may  bring  her  cousin  (just  on  from  the  West)  to 
play  a  set  until  someone  wants  the  court.  Lillian's 
cousin  has  never  played  tennis  before  but  she  has 
done  a  lot  of  croquet  and  thinks  she  ought  to  pick 
[60] 


For  three  hours  there  is  a  great  deal  of  screaming. 


"  ROLL  YOUR  OWN  " 

tennis  up  rather  easily.  For  three  hours  there  is  a 
great  deal  of  screaming,  with  Lillian  and  her  cousin 
hitting  the  ball  an  aggregate  of  eleven  times,  while 
Daddy  patters  up  and  down  the  side-lines,  all 
dressed  up  in  white,  practising  shots  against  the 
netting. 

Finally,  the  girls  will  ask  him  to  play  with  them, 
and  he  will  thank  them  and  say  that  he  has  to  go 
in  the  house  now  as  he  is  all  perspiration  and  is 
afraid  of  catching  cold. 

After  dinner  there  is  dancing  on  the  court  by  the 
young  people.  Anyway,  Daddy  is  getting  pretty 
old  for  tennis. 


[61] 


xn 

DO   INSECTS   THINK? 

IN  a  recent  book  entitled,  "  The  Psychic  Life  of 
Insects,"  Professor  Bouvier  says  that  we  must 
be  careful  not  to  credit  the  little  winged  fellows  with 
intelligence  when  they  behave  in  what  seems  like  an 
intelligent  manner.  They  may  be  only  reacting. 
I  would  like  to  confront  the  Professor  with  an  in 
stance  of  reasoning  power  on  the  part  of  an  insect 
which  can  not  be  explained  away  in  any  such 
manner. 

During  the  summer  of  1899,  while  I  was  at  work 
on  my  treatise  H  Do  Larvae  Laugh,"  we  kept  a 
female  wasp  at  our  cottage  in  the  Adirondacks.  It 
really  was  more  like  a  child  of  our  own  than  a  wasp, 
except  that  it  looked  more  like  a  wasp  than  a  child 
of  our  own.  That  was  one  of  the  ways  we  told  the 
difference. 

It  was  still  a  young  wasp  when  we  got  it  (thirteen 
or  fourteen  years  old)  and  for  some  time  we  could 
not  get  it  to  eat  or  drink,  it  was  so  shy.  Since  it 
was  a  female,  we  decided  to  call  it  Miriam,  but  soon 
the  children's  nickname  for  it  —  "  Pudge  "  —  be- 
[62] 


DO  INSECTS  THINK? 

came  a  fixture,  and  "  Pudge  "  it  was  from  that  time 
on. 

One  evening  I  had  been  working  late  in  my 
laboratory  fooling  round  with  some  gin  and  other 
chemicals,  and  in  leaving  the  room  I  tripped  over 
a  nine  of  diamonds  which  someone  had  left  lying 
on  the  floor  and  knocked  over  my  card  catalogue 
containing  the  names  and  addresses  of  all  the  larvae 
worth  knowing  in  North  America.  The  cards  went 
everywhere. 

I  was  too  tired  to  stop  to  pick  them  up  that  night, 
and  went  sobbing  to  bed,  just  as  mad  as  I  could  be. 
As  I  went,  however,  I  noticed  the  wasp  flying  about 
in  circles  over  the  scattered  cards.  "  Maybe  Pudge 
will  pick  them  up,"  I  said  half-laughingly  to  my 
self,  never  thinking  for  one  moment  that  such  would 
be  the  case. 

When  I  came  down  the  next  morning  Pudge  was 
still  asleep  over  in  her  box,  evidently  tired  out. 
And  well  she  might  have  been.  For  there  on  the 
floor  lay  the  cards  scattered  all  about  just  as  I 
had  left  them  the  night  before.  The  faithful  little 
insect  had  buzzed  about  all  night  trying  to  come  to 
some  decision  about  picking  them  up  and  arranging 
them  in  the  catalogue-box,  and  then,  figuring  out 
for  herself  that,  as  she  knew  practically  nothing 
about  larvae  of  any  sort  except  wasp-larvae,  she 

[63] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

would  probably  make  more  of  a  mess  of  rearrang 
ing  them  than  as  if  she  left  them  on  the  floor  for 
me  to  fix.  It  was  just  too  much  for  her  to  tackle, 
and,  discouraged,  she  went  over  and  lay  down  in 
her  box,  where  she  cried  herself  to  sleep. 

If  this  is  not  an  answer  to  Professor  Bouvier's 
statement  that  insects  have  no  reasoning  power,  I 
do  not  know  what  is. 


[64] 


XIII 
THE   SCORE   IN   THE    STANDS 

THE  opening  week  of  the  baseball  season 
brought  out  few  surprises.  The  line-up  in 
the  grandstands  was  practically  the  same  as  when 
the  season  closed  last  Fall,  most  of  the  fans  busying 
themselves  before  the  first  game  started  by  picking 
old  1921  seat  checks  and  October  peanut  crumbs 
out  of  the  pockets  of  their  light-weight  overcoats. 

Old-timers  on  the  two  teams  recognized  the  famil 
iar  faces  in  the  bleachers  and  were  quick  to  give 
them  a  welcoming  cheer.  The  game  by  innings  as 
it  was  conducted  by  the  spectators  is  as  follows: 

FIRST  INNING:  Scanlon,  sitting  in  the  first- 
base  bleachers,  yelled  to  Ruth  to  lead  off  with  a 
homer.  Thibbets  sharpened  his  pencil.  Liebman 
and  O'Rourke,  in  the  south  stand,  engaged  in  a  bit 
ter  controversy  over  Peckingpaugh's  last-season  bat 
ting  average.  NO  RUNS. 

SECOND  INNING:  Scanlon  yelled  to  Bodie  to 
to  whang  out  a  double.  Turtelot  said  that  Bodie 
couldn't  do  it.  Scanlon  said  "  Oh,  is  that  so?  " 
Turtelot  said  "  Yes,  that's  so  and  whad'  yer  know 

[65] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

about  that?  "  Bodie  whanged  out  a  double  and 
Scanlon 's  collar  came  undone  and  he  lost  his 
derby.  Stevens  announced  that  this  made  Bodie's 
batting  average  1000  for  the  season  so  far.  Joslin 
laughed. 

THIRD  INNING:  Thibbets  sharpened  his  pen 
cil.  Zinnzer  yelled  to  Mays  to  watch  out  for  a  fast 
one.  Steinway  yelled  to  Mays  to  watch  out  for  a 
slow  one.  Mays  fanned.  O'Rourke  called  out  and 
asked  Brazill  how  all  the  little  brazil-nuts  were. 
Levy  turned  to  O'Rourke  and  said  he'd  brazil-nut 
him.  O'Rourke  said  "  Eah?  When  do  you  start 
doing  it?  "  Levy  said:  "  Right  now."  O'Rourke 
said:  "All  right,  come  on.  I'm  waiting."  Levy 
said:  "Eah?"  O'Rourke  said:  "  Well,  why  don't 
you  come,  you  big  haddock?  "  Levy  said  he'd  wait 
for  O'Rourke  outside  where  there  weren't  any  la 
dies.  NO  RUNS. 

FOURTH  INNING:  Scanlon  called  out  to  Ruth 
to  knock  a  homer.  Thibbets  sharpened  his  pencil. 
Scanlon  yelled:  "  Atta-boy,  Babe,  whad'  I  tell 
yer!  "  when  Ruth  got  a  single. 

FIFTH  INNING:  Mrs.  Whitebait  asked  Mr. 
Whitebait  how  you  marked  a  home-run  on  the 
score-card.  Mr.  Whitebait  said:  "Why  do  you 
have  to  know?  No  one  has  knocked  a  home-run." 
Mrs.  Whitebait  said  that  Babe  Ruth  ran  home  in 
[66] 


THE  SCORE  IN  THE  STANDS 

the  last  inning.  "  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Mr.  White 
bait,  "  but  it  wasn't  a  home-run."  Mrs.  W.  asked 
him  with  some  asperity  just  why  it  wasn't  a  home- 
run,  if  a  man  ran  home,  especially  if  it  was  Babe 
Ruth.  Mr.  W.  said:  "I'll  tell  you  later.  I  want 
to  watch  the  game."  Mrs.  Whitebait  began  to  cry 
a  little.  Mr.  Whitebait  groaned  and  snatched  the 
card  away  from  her  and  marked  a  home-run  for 
Ruth  in  the  fourth  inning. 

SIXTH  INNING:  Thurston  called  out  to  Hasty 
not  to  let  them  fool  him.  Wicker  said  that  where 
Hasty  got  fooled  in  the  first  place  was  when  he  let 
them  tell  him  he  could  play  baseball.  Unknown 
man  said  that  he  was  "  too  Hasty,"  and  laughed 
very  hard.  Thurston  said  that  Hasty  was  a  better 
pitcher  than  Mays,  when  he  was  in  form.  Un 
known  man  said  "  Eah?  "  and  laughed  very  hard 
again.  Wicker  asked  how  many  times  in  seven  years 
Hasty  was  in  form  and  Thurston  replied:  "  Often 
enough  for  you."  Unknown  man  said  that  what 
Hasty  needed  was  some  hasty-pudding,  and  laughed 
so  hard  that  his  friend  had  to  take  him  out. 

Thibbets  sharpened  his  pencil. 

SEVENTH  INNING:  Libby  called  "Every 
body  up!  "  as  if  he  had  just  originated  the  idea, 
and  seemed  proudly  pleased  when  everyone  stood 
up.  Taussig  threw  money  to  the  boy  for  a  bag  of 

[67] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

peanuts  who  tossed  the  bag  to  Levy  who  kept  it. 
Taussig  to  boy  to  Levy. 

Scanlon  yelled  to  Ruth  to  come  through  with  a 
homer.  Ruth  knocked  a  single  and  Scanlon  yelled 
"  Atta-boy,  Babe!  All-er  way  'round!  All-er  way 
round,  Babe!  "  Mrs.  Whitebait  asked  Mr.  White 
bait  which  were  the  Clevelands.  Mr.  Whitebait  said 
very  quietly  that  the  Clevelands  weren't  playing  to 
day,  just  New  York  and  Philadelphia  and  that  only 
two  teams  could  play  the  game  at  the  same  time,  that 
perhaps  next  year  they  would  have  it  so  that  Cleve 
land  and  Philadelphia  could  both  play  New  York  at 
once  but  the  rules  would  have  to  be  changed  first. 
Mrs.  Whitebait  said  that  he  didn't  have  to  be  so 
nasty  about  is.  Mr.  W.  said  My  God,  who's  being 
nasty?  Mrs.  W.  said  that  the  only  reason  she  came 
up  with  him  anyway  to  see  the  Giants  play  was  be 
cause  then  she  knew  that  he  wasn't  off  with  a  lot  of 
bootleggers.  Mr.  W.  said  that  it  wasn't  the  Giants 
but  the  Yankees  that  she  was  watching  and  where 
did  she  get  that  bootlegger  stuff.  Mrs.  W.  said  never 
mind  where  she  got  it.  NO  RUNS. 

EIGHTH  INNING:  Thibbets  sharpened  his 
pencil.  Litner  got  up  and  went  home.  Scanlon 
yelled  to  Ruth  to  end  up  the  game  with  a  homer. 
Ruth  singled.  Scanlon  yelled  "  Atta-Babe!  "  and 
went  home. 

[68] 


THE  SCORE  IN  THE  STANDS 

NINTH  INNING:  Stevens  began  figuring  up 
the  players'  batting  averages  for  the  season  thus  far. 
Wicker  called  over  to  Thurston  and  asked  him  how 
Mr.  Hasty  was  now.  Thurston  said  "  That's  all 
right  how  he  is."  Mrs.  Whitebait  said  that  she  in 
tended  to  go  to  her  sister's  for  dinner  and  that  Mr. 
Whitebait  could  do  as  he  liked.  Mr.  Whitebait 
told  her  to  bet  that  he  would  do  just  that.  Thibbets 
broke  his  pencil. 

Score:    New  York  n.    Philadelphia  i 


[69] 


XIV 
MID-WINTER    SPORTS 

A I  AHESE  are  melancholy  days  for  the  news- 
JL  paper  sporting-writers.  The  complaints  are 
all  in  from  old  grads  of  Miami  who  feel  that  there 
weren't  enough  Miami  men  on  the  Ail-American 
football  team,  and  it  is  too  early  to  begin  writing 
about  the  baseball  training  camps.  Once  in  a  while 
some  lady  swimmer  goes  around  a  tank  three  hun 
dred  times,  or  the  holder  of  the  Class  B  squash 
championship  "  meets  all-comers  in  court  tilt,"  but 
aside  from  that,  the  sporting  world  is  buried  with 
the  nuts  for  the  winter. 

Since  sporting-writers  must  live,  why  not  intro 
duce  a  few  items  of  general  interest  into  their  col 
umns,  accounts  of  the  numerous  contests  of  speed 
and  endurance  which  take  place  during  the  winter 
months  in  the  homes  of  our  citizenry?  For  in 
stance: 

The  nightly  races  between  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Theodore 
M.  Twamly,  to  see  who  can  get  into  bed  first,  leav 
ing  the  opening  of  the  windows  and  putting  out  of 
the  light  for  the  loser,  was  won  last  night  for  the 

[70] 


MID-WINTER  SPORTS 

first  time  this  winter  by  Mr.  Twamly.  Strategy 
entered  largely  into  the  victory,  Mr.  Twamly  getting 
into  bed  with  most  of  his  clothes  on. 

An  interesting  exhibition  of  endurance  was  given 
by  Martin  W.  Lasbert  at  his  home  last  evening 
when  he  covered  the  distance  between  the  cold-water 
tap  in  his  bath-room  to  the  bedside  of  his  young 
daughter,  Mertice,  eighteen  times  in  three  hours, 
this  being  the  number  of  her  demands  for  water 
to  drink.  When  interviewed  after  the  eighteenth 
Jap,  Mr.  Lasbert  said:  "I  wouldn't  do  it  another 
time,  not  if  the  child  were  parching."  Shortly  after 
that  he  made  his  nineteenth  trip. 

As  was  exclusively  predicted  in  these  columns 
yesterday  and  in  accordance  with  all  the  dope, 
Chester  H.  Flerlie  suffered  his  sixtieth  consecutive 
defeat  last  evening  at  the  hands  of  the  American 
Radiator  Company,  the  builders  of  his  furnace. 
With  all  respect  for  Mr.  Flerlie's  pluck  in  attempt 
ing,  night  after  night,  to  dislodge  clinkers  caught 
in  the  grate,  it  must  be  admitted,  even  by  his  host 
of  friends,  that  he  might  much  better  be  engaged 
in  some  gainful  occupation.  The  grate  tackled  by 
the  doughty  challenger  last  night  was  one  of  the 
fine- tooth  comb  variety  (the  "  Non-Sifto "  No. 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

114863),  in  which  the  clinker  is  caught  by  a  patent 
clutch  and  held  securely  until  the  wrecking-crew 
arrives.  At  the  end  of  the  bout  Mr.  Flerlie  was 
led  away  to  his  dressing  room,  suffering  from 
lacerated  hands  and  internal  injuries.  "  I'm 
through,"  was  his  only  comment. 

This  morning's  winners  in  the  Lymedale  com 
muters'  contest  for  seats  on  the  shady  side  of  the 
car  on  the  8:28  were  L.  Y.  Irman,  Sydney  M.  Gis- 
sith,  John  F.  Nothman  and  Louis  Leque.  All  the 
other  seats  were  won  by  commuters  from  Loose 
Valley,  the  next  station  above  Lymedale.  In  trying 
to  scramble  up  the  car-steps  in  advance  of  lady 
passengers,  Merton  Steef  had  his  right  shin  badly 
skinned  and  hit  his  jaw  on  the  bottom  step.  Time 
was  not  called  while  his  injuries  were  being  looked 
after. 

Before  an  enthusiastic  and  notable  gathering, 
young  Lester  J.  Dimmik,  age  three,  put  to  rout  his 
younger  brother,  Carl  Withney  Dimmik,  Jr.,  age 
two,  in  their  matutinal  contest  to  see  which  can  dis 
pose  of  his  Wheatena  first.  In  the  early  stages  of 
the  match,  it  began  to  look  as  if  the  bantamweight 
would  win  in  a  walk,  owing  to  his  trick  of  throwing 
spoonfuls  of  the  breakfast  food  over  his  shoulder 

[72] 


He  was  further  aided  by  the  breaks  of  the  game. 


MID-WINTER  SPORTS 

and  under  the  tray  of  his  high-chair.  The  referees 
soon  put  a  stop  to  this,  however,  and  specified  that 
the  Wheatena  must  be  placed  in  the  mouth.  This 
cramped  Dimmick  Junior's  form  and  it  soon  be 
came  impossible  for  him  to  locate  his  mouth  at  all. 
At  this  point,  young  Lester  took  the  lead,  which  he 
maintained  until  he  crossed  the  line  an  easy  winner. 
As  a  reward  he  was  relieved  of  the  necessity  of 
eating  another  dish  of  Wheatena. 

Stephen  L.  Agnew  was  the  lucky  guest  in  the 
home  of  Orrin  F.  McNeal  this  week-end,  beating 
out  Lee  Stable  for  first  chance  at  the  bath-tub  on 
Sunday  morning.  Both  contestants  came  out  of 
their  bed  rooms  at  the  same  time,  but  Agnew's  room 
being  nearer  the  bath-room,  he  made  the  distance 
down  the  hall  in  two  seconds  quicker  time  than  his 
somewhat  heavier  opponent,  and  was  further  aided 
by  the  breaks  of  the  game  when  Stable  dropped  his 
sponge  half-way  down  the  straightaway.  Agnew's 
time  in  the  bath-room  was  i  hr.  and  25  minutes. 


[73] 


XV 
READING   THE    FUNNIES   ALOUD 

ONE  of  the  minor  enjoyable  features  of  having 
children  is  the  necessity  of  reading  aloud  to 
them  the  colored  comic  sections  in  the  Sunday 
papers. 

And  no  matter  how  good  your  intentions  may 
have  been  at  first  to  keep  the  things  out  of  the  house 
(the  comic  sections,  not  the  children)  sooner  or 
later  there  comes  a  Sunday  when  you  find  that  your 
little  boy  has,  in  some  underground  fashion,  learned 
of  the  raucous  existence  of  Simon  Simp  or  the 
Breakback  Babies,  and  is  demanding  the  current 
installment  with  a  fervor  which  will  not  be  denied. 

Sunday  morning  in  our  house  has  now  become  a 
time  for  low  subterfuge  on  the  part  of  Doris  and 
me  in  our  attempts  to  be  somewhere  else  when 
Junior  appears  dragging  the  "  funnies "  (a  loath 
some  term  in  itself)  to  be  read  to  him.  I  make 
believe  that  the  furnace  looks  as  if  it  might  fall 
apart  at  any  minute  if  it  is  not  watched  closely,  and 
Doris  calls  from  upstairs  that  she  may  be  some  time 
over  the  weekly  accounts. 

[74] 


READING  THE  FUNNIES  ALOUD 

But  sooner  or  later  Junior  ferrets  one  of  us  out 
and  presents  himself  beaming.  "  Now  will  you 
read  me  the  '  funnies '  ?  "  is  the  dread  sentence 
which  opens  the  siege.  It  then  becomes  a  rather  ill- 
natured  contest  between  Doris  and  me  to  see  which 
can  pick  the  more  bearable  pages  to  read,  leaving 
the  interminable  ones,  containing  great  balloons 
pregnant  with  words,  for  the  other. 

I  usually  find  that  Doris  has  read  the  Briggs  page 
to  Junior  before  I  get  downstairs,  the  Briggs  page 
(and  possibly  the  drawings  of  Voight's  Lester  De 
Pester)  being  the  only  department  that  an  adult 
mind  can  dwell  on  and  keep  its  self-respect.  "  Now 
7  will  read  you  Briggs,"  says  Doris  with  the  air  of 
an  indulgent  parent,  but  settling  down  with  great 
relish  to  the  task,  "  and  Daddy  will  read  you  the 
others." 

Having  been  stuck  for  over  a  year  with  "  the 
others  "  I  have  now  reached  a  stage  where  I  utilize 
a  sort  of  second  sight  in  the  reading  whereby  the 
words  are  seen  and  pronounced  without  ever  regis 
tering  on  my  brain  at  all.  And,  as  I  sit  with  Junior 
impassive  on  my  lap  (just  why  children  should  so 
frantically  seek  to  have  the  "  funnies "  read  to 
them  is  a  mystery,  for  they  never  by  any  chance 
seem  to  derive  the  slightest  emotional  pleasure  from 
the  recital  but  sit  in  stony  silence  as  if  they  rather 

[75] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

disapproved  of  the  whole  thing  after  all)  I  have 
evolved  a  system  which  enables  me  to  carry  on  a 
little  constructive  thinking  while  reading  aloud, 
thereby  keeping  the  time  from  being  entirely 
wasted.  Heaven  knows  we  get  little  enough  oppor 
tunity  to  sit  down  and  think  things  out  in  this  busy 
work-a-day  world,  so  that  this  little  period  of  mental 
freedom  is  in  the  nature  of  a  godsend.  Thus: 


What  Is  Being  Read  Aloud 

"  Here  he  says  '  Gee  but  this 
is  tough  luck  a  new  automo 
bile  an'  no  place  to  go '  and 
the  dog  is  saying  '  It  aint  so 
tough  at  that'  Then  here  in 
the  next  picture  the  old  man 
says  '  Percy  ain't  in  my  class 
as  a  chauffeur,  he  ain't  as  fear 
less  as  me '  and  this  one  is 
saying  *  Hello  there,  that  looks 
like  the  old  tin  Lizzie  that  I 
gave  to  the  General  last  year 
I  guess  I'll  take  a  peek  and  see 
what's  up'  'Well  what  are 
you  doing  hanging  around 
here,  what  do  you  think  this  is 
a  hotel?  '  '  Say  where  do  you 
get  that  stuff  you  ain't  no 
justice  of  the  peace  you  know ' 
'Wow!  Let  me  out  let  me 
out,  I  say'  Til  show  you 
biff  biff  wham  zowie ! '  etc. 
etc. " 


Concurrent   Thinking 

"Here  I  am  in  the  thirties 
and  it  is  high  time  that  I  made 
something  of  myself.  Is  my 
job  as  good  as  I  deserve?  By 
studying  nights  I  might  fit 
myself  for  a  better  position  in 
the  foreign  exchange  depart 
ment,  but  that  would  mean  an 
outlay  of  money.  Further 
more,  is  it,  on  the  whole,  wise 
to  attempt  to  hurry  the  work 
ings  of  Fate?  Is  not  perhaps 
the  determinist  right  who  says 
that  what  we  are  and  what  we 
ever  can  be  is  already  written 
in  the  books,  that  we  can  not 
alter  the  workings  of  Destiny 
one  iota?  This  theory  is,  of 
course,  tenable,  but,  on  the 
whole,  it  seems  to  me  that  if  I 
were  to  take  the  matter  into 
my  own  hands,  etc.  etc." 


And  then,  when  the  last  pot  of  boiling  water  has 
been  upset  over  the  last  grandfather's  back,  and 
Junior  has  slid  down  from  your  lap  as  near  satis- 

[76] 


READING  THE  FUNNIES  ALOUD 

fied  as  he  ever  will  be,  you  have  ten  or  fifteen  min 
utes  of  constructive  thinking  behind  you,  which,  if 
practiced  every  Sunday,  will  make  you  President 
of  the  company  within  a  few  years. 


[77] 


XVI 
OPERA  SYNOPSES 

Some  Sample  Outlines  of  Grand  Opera  Plots  For 
Home  Study. 


DIE   MEISTER-GENOSSENSCHAFT 

SCENE:  The  Forests  of  Germany. 
TIME:  Antiquity. 

CAST 

STRUDEL,  God  of  Rain Basso 

SCHMALZ,  God  of  Slight  Drizzle Tenor 

IMMERGLUCK,  Goddess  of  the  Six  Primary 

Colors Soprano 

LUDWIG  DAS  EIWEISS,  the  Knight  of  the  Iron 

Duck Baritone 

THE  WOODPECKER Soprano 

ARGUMENT 

The  basis  of  "Die  Meister-Genossenschaf t "  is 
an  old  legend  of  Germany  which  tells  how  the 
Whale  got  his  Stomach. 

[78] 


OPERA  SYNOPSES 

ACT  i 

The  Rhine  at  Low  Tide  Just  Below  Weld- 
schnoffen. — Immergliick  has  grown  weary  of  always 
sitting  on  the  same  rock  with  the  same  fishes  swim 
ming  by  every  day,  and  sends  for  Schwtil  to  suggest 
something  to  do.  Schwiil  asks  her  how  she  would 
like  to  have  pass  before  her  all  the  wonders  of 
the  world  fashioned  by  the  hand  of  man.  She  says, 
rotten.  He  then  suggests  that  Ringblattz,  son  of 
Pflucht,  be  made  to  appear  before  her  and  fight  a 
mortal  combat  with  the  Iron  Duck.  This  pleases 
Immergliick  and  she  summons  to  her  the  four 
dwarfs:  Hot  Water,  Cold  Water,  Cool,  and  Cloudy. 
She  bids  them  bring  Ringblattz  to  her.  They  re 
fuse,  because  Pflucht  has  at  one  time  rescued  them 
from  being  buried  alive  by  acorns,  and,  in  a  rage, 
Immergliick  strikes  them  all  dead  with  a  thunder 
bolt. 

ACT  2 

A  Mountain  Pass. — Repenting  of  her  deed, 
Immergliick  has  sought  advice  of  the  giants,  Offen 
and  Besitz,  and  they  tell  her  that  she  must  procure 
the  magic  zither  which  confers  upon  its  owner  the 
power  to  go  to  sleep  while  apparently  carrying  on 
a  conversation.  This  magic  zither  has  been  hidden 
for  three  hundred  centuries  in  an  old  bureau  drawer, 

[79] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

guarded  by  the  Iron  Duck,  and,  although  many 
have  attempted  to  rescue  it,  all  have  died  of  a 
strange  ailment  just  as  success  was  within  their 
grasp. 

But  Immergluck  calls  to  her  side  Dampfboot,  the 
tinsmith  of  the  gods,  and  bids  him  make  for  her 
a  tarnhelm  or  invisible  cap  which  will  enable  her 
to  talk  to  people  without  their  understanding  a  word 
she  says.  For  a  dollar  and  a  half  extra  Dampfboot 
throws  in  a  magic  ring  which  renders  its  wearer 
insensible.  Thus  armed,  Immergliick  starts  out  for 
Walhalla,  humming  to  herself. 


ACT  3 

The  Forest  Before  the  Iron  Duck's  Bureau 
Drawer. — Merglitz,  who  has  up  till  this  time  held 
his  peace,  now  descends  from  a  balloon  and  demands 
the  release  of  Betty.  It  has  been  the  will  of  Wotan 
that  Merglitz  and  Betty  should  meet  on  earth  and 
hate  each  other  like  poison,  but  Zweiback,  the  drug 
gist  of  the  gods,  has  disobeyed  and  concocted  a 
love-potion  which  has  rendered  the  young  couple 
very  unpleasant  company.  Wotan,  enraged,  de 
stroys  them  with  a  protracted  heat  spell. 

Encouraged  by  this  sudden  turn  of  affairs,  Immer 
gluck  comes  to  earth  in  a  boat  drawn  by  four  white 

[go] 


OPERA  SYNOPSES 

Holsteins,  and,  seated  alone  on  a  rock,  remembers 
aloud  to  herself  the  days  when  she  was  a  girl.  Pil 
grims  from  Augenblick,  on  their  way  to  worship  at 
the  shrine  of  Schmiirr,  hear  the  sound  of  remi 
niscence  coming  from  the  rock  and  stop  in  their 
march  to  sing  a  hymn  of  praise  for  the  drying  up 
of  the  crops.  They  do  not  recognize  Immergliick, 
as  she  has  her  hair  done  differently,  and  think  that 
she  is  a  beggar  girl  selling  pencils. 

In  the  meantime,  Ragel,  the  papercutter  of  the 
gods,  has  fashioned  himself  a  sword  on  the  forge 
of  Schmalz,  and  has  called  the  weapon  "  Assistance- 
in-Emergency."  Armed  with  "Assistance-in-Emer- 
gency  "  he  comes  to  earth,  determined  to  slay  the 
Iron  Duck  and  carry  off  the  beautiful  Irma. 

But  Frimsel  overhears  the  plan  and  has  a  drink 
brewed  which  is  given  to  Ragel  in  a  golden  goblet 
and  which,  when  drunk,  makes  him  forget  his  past 
and  causes  him  to  believe  that  he  is  Schnorr,  the 
God  of  Fun.  While  laboring  under  this  spell, 
Ragel  has  a  funeral  pyre  built  on  the  summit  of  a 
high  mountain  and,  after  lighting  it,  climbs  on  top 
of  it  with  a  mandolin  which  he  plays  until  he  is 
consumed. 

Immergluck  never  marries. 


[81] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

II 
IL    MINNESTRONE 

(PEASANT    LOVE) 

SCENE:  Venice  and  Old  Point  Comfort. 
TIME:  Early  i6th  Century. 

CAST 

ALFONSO,  Duke  of  Minnestrone Baritone 

PARTOLA,  a  Peasant  Girl Soprano 


CLEANSO 

TURING     \  Young  Noblemen  of  Venice. 

BOMBO 


Tenor 
Tenor 
Basso 


LUDOVICO  )  Assassins  in  the  service  of  (         Basso 

ASTOLFO    )       Cafeteria  Rusticana       ( Methodist 

Townspeople,  Cabbies  and  Sparrows 

ARGUMENT 

"  II  Minnestrone  "  is  an  allegory  of  the  two  sides 
of  a  man's  nature  (good  and  bad),  ending  at  last 
in  an  awfully  comical  mess  with  everyone  dead. 

ACT  i 

A  Public  Square,  Ferrara.  —  During  a  peasant 
festival  held  to  celebrate  the  sixth  consecutive  day 
of  rain,  Rudolpho,  a  young  nobleman,  sees  Lilliano, 


OPERA  SYNOPSES 

daughter  of  the  village  bell-ringer,  dancing  along 
throwing  artificial  roses  at  herself.  He  asks  of  his 
secretary  who  the  young  woman  is,  and  his  secre 
tary,  in  order  to  confuse  Rudolpho  and  thereby 
win  the  hand  of  his  ward,  tells  him  that  it  is  his 
( Rudolpho  7s)  own  mother,  disguised  for  the  fes 
tival.  Rudolpho  is  astounded.  He  orders  her 
arrest. 

ACT  2 

Banquet  Hall  in  Gorgio's  Palace.  —  Lilliano  has 
not  forgotten  Breda,  her  old  nurse,  in  spite  of  her 
troubles,  and  determines  to  avenge  herself  for  the 
many  insults  she  received  in  her  youth  by  poisoning 
her  (Breda).  She  therefore  invites  the  old  nurse 
to  a  banquet  and  poisons  her.  Presently  a  knock  is 
heard.  It  is  Ugolfo.  He  has  come  to  carry  away 
the  body  of  Michelo  and  to  leave  an  extra  quart 
of  pasteurized.  Lilliano  tells  him  that  she  no 
longer  loves  him,  at  which  he  goes  away,  dragging 
his  feet  sulkily. 

ACT  3 

In  Front  of  Emilo's  House.  —  Still  thinking  of  the 
old  man's  curse,  Borsa  has  an  interview  with 
Cleanso,  believing  him  to  be  the  Duke's  wife.  He 
tells  him  things  can't  go  on  as  they  are,  and  Cleanso 
stabs  him.  Just  at  this  moment  Betty  comes  rush- 

[83] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

ing  in  from  school  and  falls  in  a  faint.  Her  worst 
fears  have  been  realized.  She  has  been  insulted  by 
Sigmundo,  and  presently  dies  of  old  age.  In  a 
fury,  Ugolfo  rushes  out  to  kill  Sigmundo  and,  as  he 
does  so,  the  dying  Rosenblatt  rises  on  one  elbow 
and  curses  his  mother. 

Ill 
LUCY    DE    LIMA 

SCENE:  Wales. 

TIME:  1700  (Greenwich). 

CAST 

WILLIAM  WONT,  Lord  of  Glennnn Basso 

LUCY  WAGSTAFF,  his  daughter Soprano 

BERTRAM,  her  lover Tenor 

LORD  ROGER,  friend  of  Bertram Soprano 

IRMA,  attendant  to  Lucy Basso 

Friends,    Retainers    and    Members    of    the    local 
Lodge  of  Elks. 

ARGUMENT 

"  Lucy  de  Lima,"  is  founded  on  'the  well-known 
story  by  Boccaccio  of  the  same  name  and  address. 

[84] 


OPERA  SYNOPSES 

ACT  i 

Gypsy  Camp  Near  Waterbury.  —  The  gypsies, 
led  by  Edith,  go  singing  through  the  camp  on  the 
way  to  the  fair.  Following  them  comes  Despard, 
the  gypsy  leader,  carrying  Ethel,  whom  he  has  just 
kidnapped  from  her  father,  who  had  previously  just 
kidnapped  her  from  her  mother.  Despard  places 
Ethel  on  the  ground  and  tells  Mona,  the  old  hag, 
to  watch  over  her.  Mona  nurses  a  secret  grudge 
against  Despard  for  having  once  cut  off  her  leg  and 
decides  to  change  Ethel  for  Nettie,  another  kid 
napped  child.  Ethel  pleads  with  Mona  to  let  her 
stay  with  Despard,  for  she  has  fallen  in  love  with 
him  on  the  ride  over.  But  Mona  is  obdurate. 

ACT  2 

The  Fair.  —  A  crowd  of  sightseers  and  villagers 
is  present.  Roger  appears,  looking  for  Laura.  He 
can  not  find  her.  Laura  appears,  looking  for 
Roger.  She  can  not  find  him.  The  gypsy  queen 
approaches  Roger  and  thrusts  into  his  hand  the 
locket  stolen  from  Lord  Brym.  Roger  looks  at  it 
and  is  frozen  with  astonishment,  for  it  contains  the 
portrait  of  his  mother  when  she  was  in  high  school. 
He  then  realizes  that  Laura  must  be  his  sister,  and 
starts  out  to  find  her. 

[85] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

ACT  3 

Hall  in  the  Castle.  —  Lucy  is  seen  surrounded  by 
every  luxury,  but  her  heart  is  sad.  She  has  just  been 
shown  a  forged  letter  from  Stewart  saying  that  he 
no  longer  loves  her,  and  she  remembers  her  old  free 
life  in  the  mountains  and  longs  for  another  romp 
with  Ravensbane  and  Wolfshead,  her  old  pair  of 
rompers.  The  guests  begin  to  assemble  for  the 
wedding,  each  bringing  a  roast  ox.  They  chide 
Lucy  for  not  having  her  dress  changed.  Just  at 
this  moment  the  gypsy  band  bursts  in  and  Cleon 
tells  the  wedding  party  that  Elsie  and  not  Edith 
is  the  child  who  was  stolen  from  the  summer-house, 
showing  the  blood-stained  derby  as  proof.  At  this, 
Lord  Brym  repents  and  gives  his  blessing  on  the 
pair,  while  the  fishermen  and  their  wives  celebrate 
in  the  courtyard. 


[86] 


XVII 
THE  YOUNG  IDEA'S  SHOOTING  GALLERY 

SINCE  we  were  determined  to  have  Junior  edu 
cated  according  to  modern  methods  of  child 
training,  a  year  and  a  half  did  not  seem  too 
early  an  age  at  which  to  begin.  As  Doris  said: 
"  There  is  no  reason  why  a  child  of  a  year  and  a 
half  shouldn't  have  rudimentary  cravings  for  self- 
expression."  And  really,  there  isn't  any  reason, 
when  you  come  right  down  to  it. 

Doris  had  been  reading  books  on  the  subject,  and 
had  been  talking  with  Mrs.  Deemster.  Most  of 
the  trouble  in  our  town  can  be  traced  back  to  some 
one's  having  been  talking  with  Mrs.  Deemster. 
Mrs.  Deemster  brings  an  evangelical  note  into  the 
simplest  social  conversations,  so  that  by  the  time 
your  wife  is  through  the  second  piece  of  cinnamon 
toast  she  is  convinced  that  all  children  should  have 
their  knee-pants  removed  before  they  are  four,  or 
that  you  should  hire  four  servants  a  day  on  three- 
hour  shifts,  or  that,  as  in  the  present  case,  no  child 
should  be  sent  to  a  regular  school  until  he  has 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

determined  for  himself  what  his  profession  is  going 
to  be  and  then  should  be  sent  straight  from  the  home 
to  Johns  Hopkins  or  the  Sorbonne. 

Junior  was  to  be  left  entirely  to  himself,  the 
theory  being  that  he  would  find  self-expression  in 
some  form  or  other,  and  that  by  watching  him  care 
fully  it  could  be  determined  just  what  should  be 
developed  in  him,  or,  rather,  just  what  he  should  be 
allowed  to  develop  in  himself.  He  was  not  to  be 
corrected  in  any  way,  or  guided,  and  he  was  to  call 
us  "  Doris  "  and  "  Monty  "  instead  of  "  Mother  " 
and  "  Father."  We  were  to  be  just  pals,  nothing 
more.  Otherwise,  his  individuality  would  become 
submerged.  I  was,  however,  to  be  allowed  to  pay 
what  few  bills  he  might  incur  until  he  should  find 
himself. 

The  first  month  that  Junior  was  "  on  his  own," 
striving  for  self-expression,  he  spent  practically 
every  waking  hour  of  each  day  in  picking  the  mortar 
out  from  between  the  bricks  in  the  fire-place  and 
eating  it. 

"  Don't  you  think  you  ought  to  suggest  to  him 
that  nobody  who  really  is  anybody  eats  mortar?  " 
I  said. 

"  I  don't  like  to  interfere/7  replied  Doris.  "  I'm 
trying  to  figure  out  what  it  may  mean.  He  may 
have  the  makings  of  a  sculptor  in  him."  But  one 
[88] 


THE  YOUNG  IDEA'S  SHOOTING  GALLERY 

could  see  that  she  was  a  little  worried,  so  I  didn't 
say  the  cheap  and  obvious  thing,  that  at  any  rate 
he  had  the  makings  of  a  sculpture  in  him  or  would 
have  in  a  few  more  days  of  self-expression. 

Soft  putty  was  put  at  his  disposal,  in  case  he 
might  feel  like  doing  a  little  modeling.  We  didn't 
expect  much  of  him  at  first,  of  course;  maybe  just 
a  panther  or  a  little  General  Sherman;  but  if  that 
was  to  be  his  metier  we  weren't  going  to  have  it  said 
that  his  career  was  nipped  in  the  bud  for  the  lack  of 
a  little  putty. 

The  first  thing  that  he  did  was  to  stop  up  the 
keyhole  in  the  bath-room  door  while  I  was  in  the 
tub,  so  that  I  had  to  crawl  out  on  the  piazza  roof 
and  into  the  guest-room  window.  It  did  seem  as  if 
there  might  be  some  way  of  preventing  a  recurrence 
of  that  sort  of  thing  without  submerging  his  indi 
viduality  too  much.  But  Doris  said  no.  If  he  were 
disciplined  now,  he  would  grow  up  nursing  a  complex 
against  putty  and  against  me  and  might  even  try 
to  marry  Aunt  Marian.  She  had  read  of  a  little  boy 
who  had  been  punished  by  his  father  for  putting 
soap  on  the  cellar  stairs,  and  from  that  time  on,  all 
the  rest  of  his  life,  every  time  he  saw  soap  he  went 
to  bed  and  dreamed  that  he  was  riding  in  the  cab 
of  a  runaway  engine  dressed  as  Perriot,  which  meant, 

[89] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

of  course,  that  he  had  a  suppressed  desire  to  kill  his 
father. 


It  almost  seemed,  however,  as  if  the  risk  were 
worth  taking  if  Junior  could  be  shown  the  funda 
mentally  anti-social  nature  of  an  act  like  stuffing 
keyholes  with  putty,  but  nothing  was  done  about  it 
except  to  take  the  putty  supply  away  for  that  day. 

The  chief  trouble  came,  however,  in  Junior's 
contacts  with  other  neighborhood  children  whose 
parents  had  not  seen  the  light.  When  Junior 
would  lead  a  movement  among  the  young  bloods 
to  pull  up  the  Hemmings'  nasturtiums  or  would 
show  flashes  of  personality  by  hitting  little  Leda 
Hemming  over  the  forehead  with  a  trowel,  Mrs. 
Hemming  could  never  be  made  to  see  that  to 
reprimand  Junior  would  be  to  crush  out  his  God- 
given  individuality.  All  she  would  say  was,  "  Just 
look  at  those  nasturtiums!  "  over  and  over  again. 
And  the  Hemming  children  were  given  to  under 
stand  that  it  would  be  all  right  if  they  didn't  play 
with  Junior  quite  so  much. 

This  morning,  however,  the  thing  solved  itself. 
While  expressing  himself  in  putty  in  the  nursery, 
Junior  succeeded  in  making  a  really  excellent  life- 
mask  of  Mrs.  Deemster's  fourteen-months-old  little 

[90] 


Mrs.  Deemster  didn't  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  thing  at  all. 


THE  YOUNG  IDEA'S  SHOOTING  GALLERY 

girl  who  had  come  over  to  spend  the  morning  with 
him.  She  had  a  little  difficulty  in  breathing,  but  it 
really  was  a  fine  mask.  Mrs.  Deemster,  however, 
didn't  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  thing  at  all,  and 
after  excavating  her  little  girl,  took  Doris  aside. 
It  was  decided  that  Junior  is  perhaps  too  young  to 
start  in  on  his  career  unguided. 

That  is  Junior  that  you  can  hear  now,  I  think. 


XVIII 
POLYP  WITH  A  PAST 

THE  STORY  OF  AN  ORGANISM  WITH  A  HEART 

OF  all  forms  of  animal  life,  the  polyp  is  prob 
ably  the  most  neglected  by  fanciers.  People 
seem  willing  to  pay  attention  to  anything,  cats, 
lizards,  canaries,  or  even  fish,  but  simply  because 
the  polyp  is  reserved  by  nature  and  not  given  to 
showing  off  or  wearing  its  heart  on  its  sleeve,  it  is 
left  alone  under  the  sea  to  slave  away  at  coral- 
building  with  never  a  kind  word  or  a  pat  on  the 
tentacles  from  anybody. 

It  was  quite  by  accident  that  I  was  brought  face 
to  face  with  the  human  side  of  a  polyp.  I  had 
been  working  on  a  thesis  on  "  Emotional  Crises  in 
Sponge  Life,"  and  came  upon  a  polyp  formation  on 
a  piece  of  coral  in  the  course  of  my  laboratory  work. 
To  say  that  I  was  astounded  would  be  putting  it 
mildly.  I  was  surprised. 

The  difficulty  in  research  work  in  this  field  came 
in  isolating  a  single  polyp  from  the  rest  in  order 
to  study  the  personal  peculiarities  of  the  little  organ 
ism,  for,  as  is  so  often  the  case  (even,  I  fear,  with 

[92] 


POLYP  WITH  A  PAST 

us  great  big  humans  sometimes),  the  individual 
behaves  in  an  entirely  different  manner  in  private 
from  the  one  he  adopts  when  there  is  a  crowd  around. 
And  a  polyp,  among  all  creatures,  has  a  minimum  of 
time  to  himself  in  which  to  sit  down  and  think. 
There  is  always  a  crowd  of  other  polyps  dropping 
in  on  him,  urging  him  to  make  a  fourth  in  a  string 
of  coral  beads  or  just  to  come  out  and  stick  around 
on  a  rock  for  the  sake  of  good-fellowship. 

The  one  which  I  finally  succeeded  in  isolating 
was  an  engaging  organism  with  a  provocative  manner 
and  a  little  way  of  wrinkling  up  its  ectoderm  which 
put  you  at  once  at  your  ease.  There  could  be  no 
formality  about  your  relations  with  this  polyp  five 
minutes  after  your  first  meeting.  You  were  just 
like  one  great  big  family. 

Although  I  have  no  desire  to  retail  gossip,  I  think 
that  readers  of  this  treatise  ought  to  be  made  aware 
of  the  fact  (if,  indeed,  they  do  not  already  know 
it)  that  a  polyp  is  really  neither  one  thing  nor 
another  in  matters  of  gender.  One  day  it  may  be 
a  little  boy  polyp,  another  day  a  little  girl,  accord 
ing  to  its  whim  or  practical  considerations  of  policy. 
On  gray  days,  when  everything  seems  to  be  going 
wrong,  it  may  decide  that  it  will  be  neither  boy  nor 
girl  but  will  just  drift.  I  think  that  if  we  big 
human  cousins  of  the  little  polyp  were  to  follow 

[93] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

the  example  set  by  these  lowliest  of  God's  creatures 
in  this  matter,  we  all  would  find  ourselves  much 
better  off  in  the  end.  Am  I  not  right,  little  polyp? 

What  was  my  surprise,  then,  to  discover  my  little 
friend  one  day  in  a  gloomy  and  morose  mood.  It 
refused  the  peanut-butter  which  I  had  brought  it 
and  I  observed  through  the  microscope  that  it  was 
shaking  with  sobs.  Lifting  it  up  with  a  pair  of 
pincers  I  took  it  over  to  the  window  to  let  it  watch 
the  automobiles  go  by,  a  diversion  which  had,  in  the 
past,  never  failed  to  amuse.  But  I  could  see  that 
it  was  not  interested.  A  tune  from  the  victrola  fell 
equally  flat,  even  though  I  set  my  little  charge  on 
the  center  of  the  disc  and  allowed  it  to  revolve  at 
a  dizzy  pace,  which  frolic  usually  sent  it  into  spasms 
of  excited  giggling.  Something  was  wrong.  It  was 
under  emotional  stress  of  the  most  racking  kind. 

I  consulted  Klunzinger's  "  Die  Korallenthiere  des 
Rothen  Meeres  "  and  there  found  that  at  an  early 
age  the  polyp  is  quite  likely  to  become  the  victim 
of  a  sentimental  passion  which  is  directed  at  its 
own  self. 

In  other  words,  my  tiny  companion  was  in  love 
with  itself,  bitterly,  desperately,  head-over-heels  in 
love. 

In  an  attempt  to  divert  it  from  this  madness,  I 
took  it  on  an  extended  tour  of  the  Continent,  visiting 

[94] 


POLYP  WITH  A  PAST 

all  the  old  cathedrals  and  stopping  at  none  but  the 
best  hotels.  The  malady  grew  worse,  instead  of 
better.  I  thought  that  perhaps  the  warm  sun  of 
Granada  would  bring  the  color  back  into  those  pale 
tentacles,  but  there  the  inevitable  romance  in  the 
soft  air  was  only  fuel  to  the  flame,  and,  in  the 
shadow  of  the  Alhambra,  my  little  polyp  gave  up 
the  fight  and  died  of  a  broken  heart  without  ever 
having  declared  its  love  to  itself. 

I  returned  to  America  shortly  after  not  a  little 
chastened  by  what  I  had  witnessed  of  Nature's  won 
ders  in  the  realm  of  passion. 


[95] 


XIX 

HOLT!    WHO  GOES  THERE  ? 

THE  reliance  of  young  mothers  on  Dr.  Emmett 
Holt's  "  The  Care  and  Feeding  of  Children," 
has  become  a  national  custom.  Especially  during 
the  early  infancy  of  the  first  baby  does  the 
son  rise  and  set  by  what  "  Holt  says."  But  there 
are  several  questions  which  come  to  mind  which 
are  not  included  in  the  handy  questionnaire 
arranged  by  the  noted  child-specialist,  and  as  he  is 
probably  too  busy  to  answer  them  himself,  we  have 
compiled  an  appendix  which  he  may  incorporate  in 
the  next  edition  of  his  book,  if  he  cares  to.  Of 
course,  if  he  doesn't  care  to  it  isn't  compulsory. 

BATHING 

What  should  the  parent  wear  while  bathing  the 
child? 

A  rubber  loin-cloth  will  usually  be  sufficient,  with 
perhaps  a  pair  of  elbow-guards  and  anti-skid  gloves. 
A  bath  should  never  be  given  a  child  until  at  least 

[96] 


HOLT!     WHO  GOES  THERE? 

one  hour  after  eating  (that  is,  after  the  parent  has 
eaten). 

What  are  the  objections  to  face-cloths  as  a  means 
of  bathing  children? 

They  are  too  easily  swallowed,  and  after  six  or 
seven  wet  face-cloths  have  been  swallowed,  the  child 
is  likely  to  become  heavy  and  lethargic. 

Under  what  circumstances  should  the  daily  tub- 
bath  be  omitted? 

Almost  any  excuse  will  do.  The  bath-room  may 
be  too  cold,  or  too  hot,  or  the  child  may  be  too 
sleepy  or  too  wide-awake,  or  the  parent  may  have 
lame  knees  or  lead  poisoning.  And  anyway,  the 
child  had  a  good  bath  yesterday. 

CLOTHING 

How  should  the  infant  be  held  during  dressing  and 
undressing? 

Any  carpenter  will  be  glad  to  sell  you  a  vise  which 
can  be  attached  to  the  edge  of  the  table.  Place  the 
infant  in  the  vise  and  turn  the  screw  until  there  is 
a  slight  redness  under  the  pressure.  Be  careful  not 
to  turn  it  too  tight  or  the  child  will  resent  it;  but  on 
the  other  hand,  care  should  be  taken  not  to  leave  it 
too  loose,  otherwise  the  child  will  be  continually 

[97] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

falling  out  on  the  floor,  and  you  will  never  get  it 
dressed  that  way. 

What  are  the  most  important  items  in  the  baby's 
clothing? 

The  safety-pins  which  are  in  the  bureau  in  the 
next  room. 

WEIGHT 

How  should  a  child  be  weighed? 

Place  the  child  in  the  scales.  The  father  should 
then  sit  on  top  of  the  child  to  hold  him  down.  Weigh 
father  and  child  together.  Then  deduct  the  father's 
weight  from  the  gross  tonnage,  and  the  weight  of 
the  child  is  the  result. 

FRESH    AIR 

What  are  the  objections  to  an  infant's  sleeping  out- 

of -doors? 

Sleeping  out-of-doors  in  the  city  is  all  right,  but 
children  sleeping  out  of  doors  in  the  country  are 
likely  to  be  kissed  by  wandering  cows  and  things. 
This  should  never  be  permitted  under  any  circum 
stances. 

DEVELOPMENT 

When  does  the  infant  first  laugh  aloud? 
When  father  tries  to  pin  it  up  for  the  first  time, 

[98] 


HOLT!     WHO  GOES  THERE? 

//  at  two  years  the  child  makes  no  attempt  to  talk, 
what  should  be  suspected? 

That  it  hasn't  yet  seen  anyone  worth  talking  to. 

FEEDING 

What  should  not  be  fed  to  a  child? 
Ripe  olives. 

How  do  we  know  how  much  food  a  healthy  child 
needs? 

By  listening  carefully. 

Which  parent  should  go  and  get  the  child's  early 
morning  bottle? 

The  one  least  able  to  feign  sleep. 


[99] 


XX 

THE    COMMITTEE    ON   THE   WHOLE 

ANEW  plan  has  just  been  submitted  for  run 
ning  the  railroads.  That  makes  one  hundred 
and  eleven. 

The  present  suggestion  involves  the  services  of 
some  sixteen  committees.  Now  presumably  the 
idea  is  to  get  the  roses  back  into  the  cheeks  of  the 
railroads,  so  that  they  will  go  running  about  from 
place  to  place  again  and  perhaps  make  a  little 
money  on  pleasant  Saturdays  and  Sundays.  But  if 
these  proposed  committees  are  anything  like  other 
committees  which  we  have  had  to  do  with,  the  fol 
lowing  will  be  a  fair  example  of  how  our  railroads 
will  be  run. 

The  sub-committee  on  the  Punching  of  Rebate 
Slips  will  have  a  meeting  called  for  five  o'clock  in 
the  private  grill-room  at  the  Pan-American  Build 
ing.  Postcards  will  have  been  sent  out  the  day  be 
fore  by  the  Secretary,  saying:  "  Please  try  to  be 
present  as  there  are  several  important  matters  to  be 
brought  up."  This  will  so  pique  the  curiosity  of 
the  members  that  they  will  hardly  be  able  to  wait 
[100] 


THE  COMMITTEE  ON  THE  WHOLE 

until  five  o'clock.  One  will  come  at  four  o'clock  by 
mistake  and,  after  steaming  up  and  down  the  cor 
ridor  for  half  an  hour,  will  go  home  and  send  in  his 
resignation. 

At  5:10  the  Secretary  will  bustle  in  with  a  brief 
case  and  a  map  showing  the  weather  areas  over  the 
entire  United  States  for  the  preceding  year.  He  will 
be  very  warm  from  hurrying. 

At  5:15  two  members  of  the  committee  will  stroll 
in,  one  of  them  saying  to  the  other:  "  —  so  the 
Irishman  turns  to  the  Jew  and  says:  i  Well,  I  knew 
your  father  before  that!  '  Aha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha !  'I 
knew  your  father  before  that!  ' " 

They  will  then  seat  themselves  at  one  end  of  the 
committee-table,  just  as  another  member  comes 
hurrying  in.  Time  5:21. 

One  of  the  story-tellers  being  the  Chairman,  he 
will  pound  half-heartedly  on  the  table  and  say:  "  As 
some  of  us  have  to  get  away  early,  I  think  that 
we  had  better  begin  now,  although  Mr.  Entwhistle 
and  Dr.  Pearly  are  not  here." 

"  I  met  Dr.  Pearly  last  night  at  the  Vegetarian 
Club  dinner,"  says  one  of  the  members,  "  and  he 
said  that  he  might  be  a  little  late  today  but  that  he 
would  surely  come." 

"  His  wife  has  just  had  a  very  delicate  throat 
operation,  I  understand,"  offers  a  committeeman 
[101] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

who  is  drawing  concentric  circles  on  his  pad  of 
paper. 

"  Bad  weather  for  throat  operations,"  says  the 
Secretary. 

"  That's  right,"  says  the  Chairman,  looking 
through  a  pile  of  papers  for  one  which  he  has  left 
at  home.  "  But  let's  get  down  to  business.  At  the 
last  meeting  the  question  arose  as  to  whether  or 
not  it  was  advisable  to  continue  having  conductors 
punch  the  little  hole  at  the  bottom  of  rebate  slips. 
As  you  know,  the  slip  says,  '  Not  redeemable  if 
punched  here.'  Now,  someone  brought  up  the  point 
that  it  seems  silly  to  give  out  a  rebate  slip  at  all  if 
there  isn't  going  to  be  any  rebate  on  it.  A  sub 
committee  was  appointed  to  go  into  the  matter,  and 
I  would  like  to  ask  Mr.  Twing,  the  chairman,  what 
he  has  to  report." 

Mr.  Twing  will  clear  his  throat  and  start  to 
speak,  but  will  make  only  an  abortive  sound.  He 
will  then  clear  his  throat  again. 

"  Mr.  Chairman,  the  other  members  of  the  sub 
committee  and  myself  were  unable  to  get  exactly  the 
data  on  this  that  we  wanted  and  I  delegated  Mr. 
Entwhistle  to  dig  up  something  which  he  said  he 
had  read  recently  in  the  files  of  the  Scientific  Amer 
ican.  But  Mr.  Entwhistle  doesn't  seem  to  be  here 
today,  and  so  I  am  unable  to  report  his  findings. 

[102] 


"That's  right,"  says  the  chairman. 


THE  COMMITTEE  ON  THE  WHOLE 

It  was,  however,  the  sense  of  the  meeting  that  the 
conductors  should  not." 

"  Should  not  what?  "  inquires  Dr.  Pearly,  who 
has  just  sneaked  in,  knocking  three  hats  to  the  floor 
while  hanging  up  his  coat. 

Dr.  Pearly  is  never  answered,  for  the  Chairman 
looks  at  his  watch  and  says:  "  I'm  very  sorry,  gen 
tlemen,  but  I  have  an  appointment  at  5:45  and 
must  be  going.  Supposing  I  appoint  a  sub-commit 
tee  consisting  of  Dr.  Pearly,  Mr.  Twing  and  Mr. 
Berry,  to  find  Mr.  Entwhistle  and  see  what  he 
dug  out  of  the  files  of  the  Scientific  American. 
Then,  at  the  next  meeting  we  can  have  a  report 
from  both  sub-committees  and  will  also  hear  from 
Professor  McKlicktric,  who  has  just  returned  from 
Panama.  ...  A  motion  to  adjourn  is  now  in  order. 
Do  I  hear  such  a  motion?  " 

After  listening  carefully,  he  hears  it,  and  the  rail 
roads  run  themselves  for  another  week. 


[103] 


XXI 
NOTING  AN  INCREASE   IN   BIGAMY 

EITHER  more  men  are  marrying  more  wives 
than  ever  before,  or  they  are  getting  more 
careless  about  it.  During  the  past  week  bigamy 
has  crowded  baseball  out  of  the  papers,  and  while 
this  may  be  due  in  part  to  the  fact  that  it  was  a 
cold,  rainy  week  and  little  baseball  could  be  played, 
yet  there  is  a  tendency  to  be  noted  there  some 
where.  All  those  wishing  to  note  a  tendency  will 
continue  on  into  the  next  paragraph. 

There  is,  of  course,  nothing  new  in  bigamy.  Any 
one  who  goes  in  for  it  with  the  idea  of  originating 
a  new  fad  which  shall  be  known  by  his  name,  like 
the  daguerreotype  or  potatoes  O'Brien,  will  have  to 
reckon  with  the  priority  claims  of  several  hundred 
generations  of  historical  characters,  most  of  them 
wearing  brown  beards.  Just  why  beards  and 
bigamy  seem  to  have  gone  hand  in  hand  through 
the  ages  is  a  matter  for  the  professional  humorists  to 
determine.  We  certainly  haven't  got  time  to  do  it 
here. 

But  the  multiple-marriages  unearthed  during  the 
[104] 


NOTING  AN  INCREASE  IN  BIGAMY 

past  week  have  a  certain  homey  flavor  lacking  in 
some  of  those  which  have  gone  before.  For  in 
stance,  the  man  in  New  Jersey  who  had  two  wives 
living  right  with  him  all  of  the  time  in  the  same 
apartment.  No  need  for  subterfuge  here,  no  de 
ceiving  one  about  the  other.  It  was  just  a  matter 
of  walking  back  and  forth  between  the  dining-room 
and  the  study.  This  is,  of  course,  bigamy  under 
ideal  conditions. 

But  in  tracing  a  tendency  like  this,  we  must  not 
deal  so  much  with  concrete  cases  as  with  drifts  and 
curves.  A  couple  of  statistics  are  also  necessary, 
especially  if  it  is  an  alarming  tendency  that  is  being 
traced.  The  statistics  follow,  in  alphabetical 
order: 

In  the  United  States  during  the  years  1918-1919 
there  were  4,956,673  weddings.  2,485,845  of  these 
were  church  weddings,  strongly  against  the  wishes 
of  the  bridegrooms  concerned.  In  these  weddings 
10,489,392  silver  olive-forks  were  received  as  gifts. 

Starting  with  these  figures  as  a  basis,  we  turn  to 
the  report  of  the  Pennsylvania  State  Committee  on 
Outdoor  Gymnastics  for  the  year  beginning  January 
4th,  1920,  and  ending  a  year  later. 

This  report  being  pretty  fairly  uninteresting,  we 
leave  it  and  turn  to  another  report,  which  covers 
the  manufacture  and  sale  of  rugs.  This  has  a 

[105] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

picture  of  a  rug  in  it,  and  a  darned  good  likeness 
it  is,  too. 

In  this  rug  report  we  find  that  it  takes  a  Navajo 
Indian  only  eleven  days  to  weave  a  rug  12x5,  with 
a  swastika  design  in  the  middle.  Eleven  days.  It 
seems  incredible.  Why,  it  takes  only  365  days  to 
make  a  year! 

Now,  having  seen  that  there  are  73,000  men  and 
women  in  this  country  today  who  can  neither  read 
nor  write,  and  that  of  these  only  4%,  or  a  little  over 
half,  are  colored,  what  are  we  to  conclude?  What 
is  to  be  the  effect  on  our  national  morale?  Who 
is  to  pay  this  gigantic  bill  for  naval  armament? 

Before  answering  these  questions  any  further 
than  this,  let  us  quote  from  an  authority  on  the 
subject,  a  man  who  has  given  the  best  years,  or  at 
any  rate  some  very  good  years,  of  his  life  to  re 
search  in  this  field,  and  who  now  takes  exactly  the 
stand  which  we  have  been  outlining  in  this  article. 

"  I  would  not,"  he  says  in  a  speech  delivered 
before  the  Girls'  Friendly  Society  of  Laurel  Hill, 
"  I  would  not  for  one  minute  detract  from  the  glory 
of  those  who  have  brought  this  country  to  its 
present  state  of  financial  prominence  among  the 
nations  of  the  world,  and  yet  as  I  think  back  on 
those  dark  days,  I  am  impelled  to  voice  the  protest 
of  millions  of  American  citizens  yet  unborn." 
[106] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

Perhaps  some  of  our  little  readers  remember 
what  the  major  premise  of  this  article  was.  If  so, 
will  they  please  communicate  with  the  writer. 

Oh,  yes!     Bigamy! 

Well,  it  certainly  is  funny  how  many  cases  of 
bigamy  you  hear  about  nowadays.  Either  more 
men  are  marrying  more  wives  than  ever  before,  or 
they  are  getting  more  careless  about  it.  (That 
sounds  very,  very  familiar.  It  is  barely  possible 
that  it  is  the  sentence  with  which  this  article  opens. 
We  say  so  many  things  in  the  course  of  one  article 
that  repetitions  are  quite  likely  to  creep  in). 

At  any  rate,  the  tendency  seems  to  be  toward 
an  increase  in  bigamy. 


[107] 


XXII 

THE   REAL   WIGLAF:    MAN   AND 
MONARCH 

Much  time  has  been  devoted  of  late  by  ardent  biog 
raphers  to  shedding  light  on  misunderstood  characters 
in  history,  especially  British  rulers.  We  cannot  let 
injustice  any  longer  be  done  to  King  Wiglaf,  the  much- 
maligned  monarch  of  central  Britain  in  the  early  Ninth 
Century. 

The  fall  of  the  kingdom  of  Mercia  in  828  under  the 
the  onslaughts  of  Ecgberht  the  West-Saxon,  have  been 
laid  to  Wiglaf's  untidy  personal  habits  and  his  alleged 
mania  for  practical  joking.  The  accompanying  bio 
graphical  sketch  may  serve  to  disclose  some  of  the  more 
intimate  details  of  the  character  of.  the  man  and  to  alter 
in  some  degree  history's  unfavorable  estimate  of  him. 

OUR  first  glimpse  of  the  Wiglaf  who  was  one 
day  to  become  ruler  of  Mercia,  the  heart  of 
present-day  England  (music,  please),  is  when  at 
the  age  of  seven  he  was  taken  by  Oswier,  his  father's 
murderer,  to  see  Mrs.  Siddons  play  Lady  Macbeth. 
(Every  subject  of  biographical  treatment,  regardless 
of  the  period  in  which  he  or  she  lived,  must  have 
been  taken  at  an  early  age  to  see  Mrs.  Siddons 
play  Lady  Macbeth.  It  is  part  of  the  code  of 
biography.) 

[108] 


THE  REAL  WIGLAF 

While  sitting  in  the  royal  box,  the  young  prince 
Wiglaf  was  asked  what  he  thought  of  the  perform 
ance.  "  Rotten!  "  he  answered,  and  left  the  place 
abruptly,  setting  fire  to  the  building  as  he  went  out. 

Beobald,  in  citing  the  above  incident  in  his 
"  Chronicles  of  Comical  Kings/'  calls  it  "  an  hendy 
hap  ichabbe  y-hent."  And  perhaps  he's  right. 

Events  proceeded  in  rapid  succession  after  this 
for  the  young  boy  and  we  next  find  him  facing 
marriage  with  a  stiff  upper-lip.  Mystery  has  always 
surrounded  the  reasons  which  led  to  the  choice  of 
Princess  Offa  as  Wiglaf s  bride.  In  fact,  it  has 
never  been  quite  certain  whether  or  not  she  was 
his  bride.  No  one  ever  saw  them  together.1  On 
several  occasions  he  is  reported  to  have  asked  his 
chamberlain  who  she  was  as  she  passed  by  on  the 
street.2 

And  yet  the  theory  persists  that  she  was  his  wife, 
owing  doubtless  to  the  fact  that  on  the  eve  of  the 
Battle  of  Otford  he  sent  a  message  to  her  asking 
where  "  in  God's  name  "  his  clean  shirts  had  been 
put  when  they  came  back  from  the  wash. 

We  come  now  to  that  period  in  Wiglaf 's  life  which 
has  been  for  so  many  centuries  the  cause  of  his- 

1  Lebody.    Witnesses  of  the  Proximity  of  Wiglaf  to  Offa.  II. 
265. 

2  Rouguet.    Famous  Questions  in  History.    III.  467. 

[ICQ] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

torical  speculation,  pro  and  con.  The  reference  is, 
of  course,  to  his  dealings  with  Aethelbald,  the 
ambassador  from  Wessex.  Every  schoolboy  has 
taken  part  in  the  Wiglaf- Aethelbald  controversy, 
but  how  many  really  know  the  inside  facts  of  the 
case? 

Examination  of  the  correspondence  between  these 
two  men  shows  Wiglaf  to  have  been  simply  a  great, 
big-hearted,  overgrown  boy  in  the  whole  affair.  All 
claims  of  his  having  had  an  eye  on  the  throne  of 
Northumbria  fade  away  under  the  delightful  in 
genuousness  of  his  attitude  as  expressed  in  these 
letters. 

"I  should  of  thought,"  he  writes  in  821  to  his 
sister,  "  that  anyone  who  was  not  cock-ide  drunk 
would  have  known  better  than  to  of  tried  to  walk 
bear-foot  through  that  eel-grass  from  the  beech  up 
to  the  bath-house  without  sneekers  on,  which  is 
what  that  ninn  Aethelbald  tryed  to  do  this  AM. 
Well  say  laffter  is  no  name  for  what  you  would  of 
done  if  you  had  seen  him.  He  looked  like  he  was 
trying  to  walk  a  tide-rope.  Hey  I  yelled  at  him 
all  the  way,  do  you  think  you  are  trying  to  walk  a 
tide-rope?  Well  say  maybe  that  didnt  make  him 


sore.'7 


Shortly  after  this  letter  was  written,  Wiglaf  as 
cended  the  throne  of  Mercia,  his  father  having 
[no] 


THE  REAL  WIGLAF 

disappeared  Saturday  night  without  trace.  A 
peasant x  some  years  after  said  that  he  met  the  old 
king  walking  along  a  road  near  what  is  now  the 
Scottish  border,  telling  people  that  he  was  carrying 
a  letter  of  greeting  from  the  Mayor  of  Pontygn  to 
the  Mayor  of  Langoscgirh.  Others  say  that  he  fell 
into  the  sea  off  the  coast  of  Wales  and  became  what 
is  now  known  as  King's  Rocks.  This  last  has  never 
been  authenticated. 

At  any  rate,  the  son,  on  ascending  the  throne,  be 
came  king.  His  first  official  act  was  to  order  dinner. 
"  A  nice,  juicy  steak,"  he  is  said  to  have  called  for,2 
"  French  fries,  apple  pie  and  a  cup  of  coffee."  It 
is  probable  that  he  really  said  "  a  coff  of  cuppee," 
however,  as  he  was  a  wag  of  the  first  water  and 
loved  a  joke  as  well  as  the  next  king. 

We  are  now  thrown  into  the  maelstrom  of  con 
tradictory  historical  data,  some  of  which  credits 
Wiglaf  with  being  the  greatest  ruler  Mercia  ever  had 
and  some  of  which  indicates  that  he  was  nothing 
but  a  royal  bum.  It  is  not  the  purpose  of  this  biog- 
graphy  to  try  to  settle  the  dispute.  All  we  know 
for  a  fact  is  that  he  was  a  very  human  man  who  had 
faults  like  the  rest  of  us  and  that  shortly  after  be 
coming  king  he  disappears  from  view. 

1  Peasant  Tales  and  Fun-making.    II.  965. 

2  Fifty  Menus  for  August.  —  46. 

[ml 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

His  reign  began  at  4  p.  M.  one  Wednesday  (no, 
Thursday)  afternoon  and  early  the  next  morning 
Mercia  was  overrun  by  the  West-Saxons.  It  is 
probable  that  King  Wiglaf  was  sold  for  old  silver 
to  help  pay  expenses. 


[112] 


XXIII 

FACING   THE  BOYS'    CAMP 
PROBLEM 

THE  time  seemed  to  have  come  to  send  Junior 
away  to  a  boys'  camp  for  the  summer.  He 
was  getting  too  large  to  have  about  the  house  during 
the  hot  weather,  and  besides,  getting  him  out  of 
town  seemed  the  only  way  to  stop  the  radio  con 
certs  which  had  been  making  a  continuous  Chau- 
tauqua  of  our  home-life  ever  since  March. 

I  therefore  got  out  a  magazine  and  turned  to  that 
section  of  the  advertising  headed,  "Summer  Camps 
and  Schools."  There  was  a  staggering  array.  Judg 
ing  from  the  photographs  the  entire  child  population 
of  the  United  States  spent  last  summer  in  bathing 
suits  or  on  horseback,  and  the  pictures  of  them  were 
so  generic  and  familiar-looking  that  there  was  a 
great  temptation  to  spend  the  evening  scrutinizing 
them  closely  to  see  if  you  could  pick  out  anyone 
you  knew. 

"Come  on,  read  some  out  loud,"  said  Doris  in 
her  practical  way. 

"  '  The  Nooga-Wooga  Camps,'  "  I  began.    "  '  The 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

Garden  Spot  of  the  Micasset  Mountains.  Tumbling 
water,  calls  of  birds,  light-hearted  laughter,  horse 
back  rides  along  shady  trails,  lasting  friendships  — 
all  these  are  the  heritage  of  happy  days  at  Nooga- 
Wooga.'  ...  I  don't  think  much  of  the  costumes 
they  give  the  boys  to  wear  at  Nooga-Wooga.  They 
look  rather  sissy  to  me." 

"  That's  because  you  are  looking  at  the  Camps  for 
Girls,  dear,"  said  Doris.  "  Those  are  girls  in  Peter 
Thompsons  and  bloomers." 

Hurriedly  turning  the  page,  I  came  to  Camps  for 
Boys. 

"  '  Camp  Wicomagisset,  for  Manly  Boys.  On  fa 
mous  Lake  Pogoniblick  in  the  heart  of  the  far-famed 
Wappahammock  district.  Campfire  stories,  mili 
tary  drill,  mountain  climbing,  swimming,  wading, 
hiking,  log-cabins,  sailing  — '  they  say  nothing  about 
horseshoeing.  Don't  you  suppose  they  teach  horse 
shoeing?  " 

"That  probably  comes  in  the  second  year  for 
the  older  boys,"  said  Doris.  "  I  wouldn't  want 
Junior  to  plunge  right  into  horseshoeing  his  first 
season.  We  mustn't  rush  him." 

" c  Camp  Wad-ne-go-gallup  on  the  shores  of 
Crisco  Bay,  Maine.  Facing  that  grandest  of  all 
oceans,  the  Atlantic.  Located  among  the  best  farms 
where  fresh  and  wholesome  food  can  be  had  in 


FACING  THE  BOY'S  CAMP  PROBLEM 

abundance  ' —  yes  but  is  it  had,  my  dear?  That's 
the  question.  Anyway,  I  don't  like  the  looks  of 
the  boat  in  the  picture.  It's  too  full  of  boys." 

" ( Opossum  Mountain  Camp  for  Boys.  Un 
usual  sports  and  trips  '  —  Ah,  possibly  condor  stalk 
ing!  That  certainly  would  be  unusual.  But  dan 
gerous!  I'd  hate  to  think  of  Junior  crawling  about 
over  ledges,  stalking  condors.  And  it  says  here 
that  there  is  a  dietitian  and  a  camp-mother,  as  well." 

"Camp-mother?"  Doris  sniffed,  "Probably  she 
thinks  she  knows  how  to  bring  up  children  —  " 

Just  then  Junior  came  in  to  announce  that  he 
had  signed  up  for  a  job  for  the  summer,  working 
on  the  farm  of  Eddie  Westover's  uncle.  So  in  view 
of  this  added  income,  I  felt  that  I  could  afford  a 
little  vacation  myself,  and  am  leaving  on  July  ist 
for  Camp  Mionogonett  in  the  foothills  of  the  Roko- 
mokos,  "  a  Paradise  for  Manly  Men." 


XXIV 

ALL   ABOUT   THE   SILESIAN 
PROBLEM 

SO  much  controversy  has  been  aroused  over 
Silesia  it  is  high  time  that  the  average  man  in 
this  country  had  a  clearer  idea  of  the  problem. 
At  present  many  people  think  that  if  you  add  oxy 
gen  to  Silesia  you  will  get  oxide  of  silesia  and  can 
take  spots  out  of  clothes  with  it. 

A  definite  statement  of  the  whole  Upper  Silesian 
question  is  therefore  due,  and,  for  those  who  care 
to  listen,  about  to  be  made. 

The  trouble  started  at  the  treaty  of  Noblitz  in 
1773.  You  have  no  idea  what  a  perfectly  rotten 
treaty  that  was.  It  was  negotiated  by  the  Grand 
Duke  Ludwig  of  Saxe-Goatherd-Cobalt,  whose  sis 
ter  married  a  Morrisey  and  settled  in  Fall  River. 
The  aim  and  ambition  of  Ludwig's  life  was  to  annex 
Spielzeugingen  to  Nichtrauschen,  thereby  augment 
ing  his  duchy  and  at  the  same  time  having  a  dandy 
time.  And  he  was  the  kind  of  man  who  would  stop 
at  nothing  when  it  came  time  to  augment  his  duchy. 

In  this  treaty,  then,  Ludwig  insisted  on  a  clause 
[116] 


ALL  ABOUT  THE  SILESIAN  PROBLEM 

making  Silesia  a  monogamy.  This  was  very  clever, 
as  it  brought  the  Centrist  party  in  Silesia  into  direct 
conflict  with  the  party  who  wanted  to  restore  the 
young  Prince  Niblick  to  the  throne;  thereby  caus 
ing  no  end  of  trouble  and  nasty  feeling. 

With  these  obstacles  out  of  the  way,  the  greed 
and  ambition  of  Ludwig  were  practically  unre 
strained.  In  fact,  some  historians  say  that  they 
knew  no  bounds.  Summoning  the  Storkrath,  or 
common  council  (composed  of  three  classes:  the 
nobles,  the  welterweights,  and  the  licensed  pilots) 
he  said  to  them:  (according  to  Taine) 

"  An  army  can  travel  ten  days  on  its  stomach, 
but  who  the  hell  wants  to  be  an  army?  " 

This  saying  has  become  a  by-word  in  history 
and  is  now  remembered  long  after  the  Grand  Duke 
Ludwig  has  been  forgotten.  But  at  the  time,  Lud 
wig  received  nothing  short  of  an  ovation  for  it, 
and  succeeded  in  winning  over  the  obstructionists 
to  his  side.  This  made  everyone  in  favor  of  his 
disposition  of  Silesia  except  the  Silesians.  And,  as 
they  could  neither  read  nor  write,  they  thought 
that  they  still  belonged  to  Holland  and  cheered  a 
dyke  every  time  they  saw  one. 

The  question  remained  in  abeyance  therefore,  for 
a  century  and  a  quarter.  Then,  in  1895,  three 
years  after  the  accession  of  Ralph  Rittenhouse  to 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

the  throne  of  England,  the  storm  broke  again.  The 
occasion  was  the  partition  of  Parchesie  by  the  Great 
Powers,  by  which  the  towns  of  Zweiback,  Ulm- 
hausen  and  Ost  Wilp  were  united  to  form  what  is 
known  as  the  "  industrial  triangle  "  on  the  Upper 
Silesian  border.  These  towns  are  situated  in  the 
heart  of  the  pumice  district  and  could  alone  supply 
France  and  Germany  with  pumice  for  fifty  years, 
provided  it  didn't  rain.  Bismarck  once  called  Ost 
Wilp  "  the  pumice  heart  of  the  world,"  and  he  was 
about  right,  too. 

It  will  therefore  be  seen  how  important  it  was  to 
France  that  this  "  industrial  triangle  "  on  the  Sile 
sian  border  should  belong  to  Germany.  At  the  con 
ference  which  designated  the  border  line,  Gambetta, 
representing  France,  insisted  that  the  line  should 
follow  the  course  of  the  Iser  River  ("  iser  on  one 
side  or  the  other,"  was  the  way  he  is  reported  to 
have  phrased  it),  which  would  divide  the  pumice 
deposits  into  three  areas,  the  fourth  being  the 
dummy.  This  would  never  do. 

Experts  were  called  in  to  see  if  it  might  not  be 
possible  to  so  divide  the  district  that  France  might 
get  a  quarter,  Germany  a  quarter  and  England 
fifty  cents.  It  was  suggested  that  the  line  be  drawn 
down  through  Globe- Wernicke  to  the  mouth  of  the 
Iser.  As  Gambetta  said,  the  line  had  to  be  drawn 

[1*8] 


ALL  ABOUT  THE  SILESIAN  PROBLEM 

somewhere  and  it  might  as  well  be  there.  But  Lord 
Hay-Paunceforte,  representing  England,  refused  to 
concede  the  point  and  for  a  time  it  looked  like  an 
open  breach.  But  matters  were  smoothed  over  by 
the  holding  of  a  plebiscite  in  all  the  towns  of  Upper 
Silesia.  The  result  of  this  plebiscite  was  taken  and 
exactly  reversed  by  the  council,  so  that  the  entire 
Engadine  Valley  was  given  to  Sweden,  who  didn't 
want  it  anyway. 
And  there  the  matter  now  stands. 


t"9l 


XXV 

"HAPPY   THE    HOME   WHERE 
BOOKS   ARE    FOUND" 

BY  way  of  egging  people  on  to  buy  Dr.  Eliot's 
Five  Foot  Shelf  of  books,  the  publishers  are 
resorting  to  an  advertisement  in  which  are  depicted 
two  married  couples,  one  reading  together  by  the 
library  table,  the  other  playing  some  two-handed 
game  of  cards  which  is  evidently  boring  them  con 
siderably.  The  query  is  "Which  One  of  These 
Couples  Will  be  the  Happier  in  Five  Years?  "  the 
implication  being  that  the  young  people  who  buy 
Dr.  Eliot's  books  will,  by  constant  reading  aloud 
to  each  other  from  the  works  of  the  world's 
best  writers,  cement  a  companionship  which  will 
put  to  shame  the  illiterate  union  of  the  young  card 
players. 

Granted  that  most  two-handed  games  of  cards  are 
dull  enough  to  result  in  divorce  at  the  end  of  five 
years,  they  cannot  be  compared  to  co-operative 
family  reading  as  a  system  of  home- wrecking.  If 
this  were  a  betting  periodical,  we  would  have  ten 
dollars  to  place  on  the  chance  of  the  following 
[120] 


WHERE  BOOKS  ARE  FOUND 

being  the  condition  of  affairs  in  the  literary  family 
at  the  end  of  the  stated  time: 

(The  husband  is  reading  his  evening  newspaper. 
The  wife  appears,  bringing  a  volume  from  the  Five 
Foot  Shelf.  Tonight  it  is  Darwin's  "  Origin  of 
Species.") 

WIFE:  Hurry  up  and  finish  that  paper.  We'll 
never  get  along  in  this  Darwin  if  we  don't  begin 
earlier  than  we  did  last  night. 

HUSBAND:  Well,  suppose  we  didn't  get  along 
in  it.  That  would  suit  me  all  right. 

WIFE:  If  you  don't  want  me  to  read  it  to  you, 
just  say  so  ...  (after-thought)  if  it's  so  far  over 
your  head,  just  say  so. 

HUSBAND:  It's  not  over  my  head  at  all.  It's  just 
dull.  Why  don't  you  read  some  more  out  of  that 
Italian  novel? 

WIFE:  Ugh!  I  hate  that.  I  suppose  you'd 
rather  have  me  read  "  The  Sheik." 

HUSBAND  (nastily) :  No-I-wouldn't-rather- 
have-you-read- "  The  Sheik."  Go  on  ahead  with 
your  Darwin.  I'm  listening. 

WIFE:  It's  not  my  Darwin.  I  simply  want  to 
know  a  little  something,  that's  all.  Of  course,  you 
know  everything,  so  you  don't  have  to  read  any 
thing  more. 

[121] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

HUSBAND:     Go  on,  go  on. 

WIFE:  That  last  book  we  read  was  so  far 
over  — 

HUSBAND:     Go  on,  go  on. 

WIFE:  (reads  in  an  injured  tone  one  and  a  half 
pages  on  the  selective  processes  of  pigeons) :  You're 
asleep! 

HUSBAND:  I  am  not.  The  last  words  you  read 
were  "  to  this  conclusion." 

WIFE:  Yes,  well,  what  were  the  words  before 
that? 

HUSBAND:  How  should  I  know?  I'm  not  learn 
ing  the  thing  to  recite  somewhere,  am  I? 

WIFE:  Well,  it's  very  funny  that  you  didn't  no 
tice  when  I  read  the  last  sentence  backwards. 
And  if  you  weren't  asleep  what  were  you  doing  with 
your  eyes  closed? 

HUSBAND:  I  got  smoke  in  them  and  was  resting 
them  for  a  minute.  Haven't  I  got  a  right  to  rest 
my  eyes  a  minute? 

WIFE:  I  suppose  it  rests  your  eyes  to  breathe 
through  your  mouth  and  hold  your  head  way  over 
on  one  side. 

HUSBAND:  Yes  it  does,  and  wha'd'yer  think  of 
that? 

[122] 


"If  you  weren't  asleep  what  were  you  doing  with  your  eyes 
closed?" 


WHERE  BOOKS  ARE  FOUND 

WIFE:  Go  on  and  read  your  newspaper.  That's 
just  about  your  mental  speed. 

HUSBAND:  I'm  perfectly  willing  to  read  books 
in  this  set  if  you'd  pick  any  decent  ones. 

WIFE:     Yes,  you  are. 

HUSBAND:    Wha'd'yer  mean  "  Yes  you  are  "? 

WIFE:     Just  what  I  said. 

(This  goes  on  for  ten  minutes  and  then  hus 
band  draws  a  revolver  and  kills  his  wife.) 


XXVI 

WHEN  NOT  IN  ROME,  WHY  DO  AS  THE 
ROMANS    DID? 

THERE  is  a  growing  sentiment  among  sign 
painters  that  when  a  sign  or  notice  is  to  be 
put  up  in  a  public  place  it  should  be  written  in  char 
acters  that  are  at  least  legible,  so  that,  to  quote 
"  The  Manchester  Guardian  "  (as  every  one  seems 
to  do)  "  He  who  runs  may  read." 

This  does  not  strike  one  as  being  an  unseemly 
pandering  to  popular  favor.  The  supposition  is 
that  the  sign  is  put  there  to  be  read,  otherwise  it 
would  have  been  turned  over  to  an  inmate  of  the 
Odd  Fellows  Home  to  be  engraved  on  the  head  of 
a  pin.  And  what  could  be  a  more  fair  require 
ment  than  that  it  should  be  readable? 

Advertising,  with  its  billboard  message  of  rust 
less  screens  and  co-educational  turkish-baths,  has 
done  much  to  further  the  good  cause,  and  a  glance 
through  the  files  of  newspapers  of  seventy-five 
years  ago,  when  the  big  news  story  of  the  day  was 
played  up  in  diamond  type  easily  deciphered  in 
a  strong  light  with  the  naked  eye,  shows  that 

[124] 


WHY  DO  AS  THE  ROMANS  DID? 

news  printing  has  not,  to  use  a  slang  phrase,  stood 
still. 

But  in  the  midst  of  this  uniform  progress  we 
find  a  stagnant  spot.  Surrounded  by  legends  that 
are  patent  and  easy  to  read  and  understand,  we  find 
the  stone-cutter  and  the  architect  still  putting  up 
tablets  and  cornerstones,  monuments  and  cornices, 
with  dates  disguised  in  Roman  numerals.  It  is  as 
if  it  were  a  game,  in  which  they  were  saying,  "  The 
number  we  are  thinking  of  is  even;  it  begins  with 
M;  it  has  five  digits  and  when  they  are  spread  out, 
end  to  end,  they  occupy  three  feet  of  space.  You 
have  until  we  count  to  one  hundred  to  guess  what 
it  is." 

Roman  numerals  are  all  right  for  a  rainy  Sunday 
afternoon  or  to  take  a  convalescent's  mind  from  his 
illness,  but  to  put  them  in  a  public  place,  where  the 
reader  stands  a  good  chance  of  being  run  over  by  a 
dray  if  he  spends  more  than  fifty  seconds  in  their 
perusal,  is  not  in  keeping  with  the  efficiency  of  the 
age.  If  for  no  other  reason  than  the  extra  space 
they  take,  involving  more  marble,  more  of  the  cut 
ter's  time  and  wear  and  tear  on  his  instruments, 
not  to  mention  the  big  overhead,  you  would  think 
that  Roman  numerals  would  have  been  abolished 
long  ago. 

Of  course,  they  can  be  figured  out  if  you're  good 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

at  that  sort  of  thing.  By  working  on  your  cuff  and 
backs  of  envelopes,  you  can  translate  them  in  no 
time  at  all  compared  to  the  time  taken  by  a  cocoon 
to  change  into  a  butterfly,  for  instance.  All  you 
have  to  do  is  remember  that  "  M  "  stands  for  either 
"  millium,"  meaning  thousand,  or  for  "  million." 
By  referring  to  the  context  you  can  tell  which  is 
more  probable.  If,  for  example,  it  is  a  date,  you 
can  tell  right  away  that  it  doesn't  mean  "  million," 
for  there  isn't  any  "  million  "  in  our  dates.  And 
there  is  one-seventh  or  eighth  of  your  number  de 
ciphered  already.  Then  "  C,"  of  course,  stands  for 
"  centum''  which  you  can  translate  by  working 
backwards  at  it,  taking  such  a  word  as  "  century  " 
or  "per  cent,"  and  looking  up  what  they  come 
from,  and  there  you  have  it!  By  this  time  it  is 
hardly  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  and  all  you 
have  before  you  is  a  combination  of  X's,  I's  and  an 
L,  the  latter  standing  for  "  Elevated  Railway,"  and 
"  Licorice,"  or,  if  you  cross  it  with  two  little  hori 
zontal  lines,  it  stands  for  the  English  pound,  which 
is  equivalent  to  about  four  dollars  and  eighty-odd 
cents  in  real  money.  Simple  as  sawing  through 
a  log. 

But  it  takes  time.  That's  the  big  trouble  with 
it.  You  can't  do  the  right  thing  by  the  office  and 
go  in  for  Roman  numerals,  too.  And  since  most 


WHY  DO  AS  THE  ROMANS  DID? 

of  the  people  who  pass  such  inscriptions  are 
dependent  on  their  own  earnings,  why  not  cater 
to  them  a  bit  and  let  them  in  on  the  secret? 

Probably  the  only  reason  that  the  people  haven't 
risen  up  and  demanded  a  reform  along  these  lines 
is  because  so  few  of  them  really  give  a  hang  what 
the  inscription  says.  If  the  American  Antiquarian 
Turn-Verein  doesn't  care  about  stating  in  under 
standable  figures  the  date  on  which  the  cornerstone 
of  their  building  was  laid,  the  average  citizen  is 
perfectly  willing  to  let  the  matter  drop  right  there. 

But  it  would  never  do  to  revert  to  Roman  num 
erals  in,  say,  the  arrangement  of  time-tables.  How 
long  would  the  commuter  stand  it  if  he  had  to 
mumble  to  himself  for  twenty  minutes  and  use  up 
the  margins  of  his  newspaper  before  he  could  figure 
out  what  was  the  next  train  after  the  5:18?  Or 
this,  over  the  telephone  between  wife  and  husband: 

"  Hello,  dear!  I  think  I'll  come  in  town  for 
lunch.  What  trains  can  I  get?  " 

"  Just  a  minute  —  I'll  look  them  up.  Hold  the 
wire.  .  .  .  Let's  see,  here's  one  at  XII:LVIII,  that's 
twelve,  and  L  is  a  thousand  and  V  is  five  and  three 
Ps  are  three;  that  makes  i2:one  thousand.  .  .  . 
that  can't  be  right.  .  .  .  now  XII  certainly  is 
twelve,  and  L  .  .  .  what  does  L  stand  for?  .  .  .1 
say,  what  —  does  —  L  —  stand  —  for?  .  .  .  Well, 

[127] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

ask  Helma.  .  .  .  What  does  she  say?  .  .  .  Fifty? 
.  .  .  Sure,  that  makes  it  come  out  all  right.  .  .  . 
12:58.  ...  What  time  is  it  now?  .  .  .  i  o'clock? 
.  .  .  Well,  the  next  one  leaves  Oakam  at  I:XLIV. 
.  .  .  that's  ..."  etc. 

Batting  averages  and  the  standing  of  teams  in 
the  leagues  are  another  department  where  the  intro 
duction  of  Roman  numerals  would  be  suicide  for 
the  political  party  in  power  at  the  time.  For  of  all 
things  that  are  essential  to  the  day's  work  of  the 
voter,  an  early  enlightenment  in  the  matter  of  the 
home  team's  standing  and  the  numerical  progress 
of  the  favorite  batsman  are  of  primary  importance. 
This  information  has  to  be  gleaned  on  the  way  to 
work  in  the  morning,  and,  except  for  those  who 
come  in  to  work  each  day  from  North  Philadelphia 
or  the  Croton  Reservoir,  it  would  be  a  physical 
impossibility  to  figure  the  tables  out  and  get  any 
of  the  day's  news  besides. 

CLVB  BATTING  RECORDS 

Games       At  Bat  Runs  B.H.  S.B.     S.H.     Aver. 

Detroit  CLII     MMMMMXXCDC  DCLIH  MCCCXXXIII  cxxvm  cc        CCLXII 

Chicago         CLI      MMMMCMXL  DLXXI  MCCXLVI       CLXXIX  ccxxi  ccxn 

Cleveland      CLII     MMMMCMXXXVII  Dcxrx  MCCXXXI      CL          ccxxi  CCXLIX 

Boston  CLI        MMMMDCCCLXXIV    DXXXIV    MCXCI  CXXXVI  CCXXV  CCXLV 

New  York  CL  MMMMCMLXXXVII  DLIV  MCCXXX  CLXXV  CLXV  CCXLVH 
Washington  CLIII  MMMMCMXXVHI  DV  MCXC  CLXin  CLXV  CCXDI 

St.  Louis  CLV       MMMMMLXV  DLXXIV     MCCXXI  CCVII        CLXII     CCXLI 

Philadelphia  CXLIX  MMMMDCCCXXVI    ccccxvi  MCXLIH         CXLHI    CLV      ccxxxvn 

You  CAN'T  Do  RIGHT  BY  THE  OFFICE  AND  Go  IN  TOR 
ROMAN  NUMERALS  Too. 

[128] 


WHY  DO  AS  THE  ROMANS  DID? 

On  matters  such  as  these  the  proletariat  would 
have  protested  the  Roman  numeral  long  ago.  If 
they  are  willing  to  let  its  reactionary  use  on  tablets 
and  monuments  stand  it  is  because  of  their  indif 
ference  to  influences  which  do  not  directly  affect 
their  pocketbooks.  But  if  it  could  be  put  up  to 
them  in  a  powerful  cartoon,  showing  the  Architect 
and  the  Stone-Cutter  dressed  in  frock  coats  and 
silk  hats,  with  their  pockets  full  of  money,  stepping 
on  the  Common  People  so  that  he  cannot  see  what 
is  written  on  the  tablet  behind  them,  then  perhaps 
the  public  would  realize  how  they  are  being  im 
posed  on. 

For  that  there  is  an  organized  movement  among 
architects  and  stone-cutters  to  keep  these  things 
from  the  citizenry  there  can  no  longer  be  any  doubt. 
It  is  not  only  a  matter  of  the  Roman  numerals. 
How  about  the  use  of  the  "  V  "  when  "  U  "  should 
be  used?  You  will  always  see  it  in  inscriptions. 
"  SVMNER  BVILDING  "  is  one  of  the  least  offen 
sive.  Perhaps  the  excuse  is  that  "  V  "  is  more 
adapted  to  stone-lettering.  Then  why  not  carry 
this  principle  out  further?  Why  not  use  the  letter 
H  when  S  is  meant?  Or  substitute  K  for  B?  If 
the  idea  is  to  deceive,  and  to  make  it  easier  for  the 
stone-cutter,  a  pleasing  effect  could  be  got  from 
the  inscription,  "  Erected  in  1897  by  the  Society 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

of  Arts  and  Grafts",  by  making  it  read:  "  EKEA- 
TEW  IZ  MXIXLXIXLXXII  LY  THE  XNLIEZY 
OF  AEXA  ZNL  ELAFTX."  There  you  have 
letters  that  are  all  adapted  to  stone-cutting;  they 
look  well  together,  and  they  are,  in  toto,  as  intel 
ligible  as  most  inscriptions. 


XXVII 

THE  TOOTH,  THE  WHOLE  TOOTH,  AND 
NOTHING  BUT  THE  TOOTH 

SOME  well-known  saying  (it  doesn't  make  much 
difference  what)  is  proved  by  the  fact  that 
everyone  likes  to  talk  about  his  experiences  at  the 
dentist's.  For  years  and  years  little  articles  like 
this  have  been  written  on  the  subject,  little  jokes 
like  some  that  I  shall  presently  make  have  been 
made,  and  people  in  general  have  been  telling  other 
people  just  what  emotions  they  experience  when 
they  crawl  into  the  old  red  plush  guillotine. 

They  like  to  explain  to  each  other  how  they  feel 
when  the  dentist  puts  "  that  buzzer  thing  "  against 
their  bicuspids,  and,  if  sufficiently  pressed,  they  will 
describe  their  sensations  on  mouthing  a  rubber  dam. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I  hate,"  they  will  say  with 
great  relish,  "  when  he  takes  that  little  nut-pick 
and  begins  to  scrape.  Ugh!  " 

"  Oh,  I'll  tell  you  what's  worse  than  that,"  says 
the  friend,  not  to  be  outdone,  "  when  he  is  poking 
around  careless-like,  and  strikes  a  nerve.  Wow!  " 

And  if  there  are  more  than  two  people  at  the 

[131] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

experience-meeting,  everyone  will  chip  in  and  tell 
what  he  or  she  considers  to  be  the  worst  phase  of 
the  dentist's  work,  all  present  enjoying  the  narra 
tion  hugely  and  none  so  much  as  the  narrator  who 
has  suffered  so. 

This  sort  of  thing  has  been  going  on  ever  since 
the  first  mammoth  gold  tooth  was  hung  out  as  a 
bait  to  folks  in  search  of  a  good  time.  (By  the 
way,  when  did  the  present  obnoxious  system  of  den 
tistry  begin?  It  can't  be  so  very  long  ago  that  the 
electric  auger  was  invented,  and  where  would  a 
dentist  be  without  an  electric  auger?  Yet  you 
never  hear  of  Amalgam  Filling  Day,  or  any  other 
anniversary  in  the  dental  year).  There  must  be 
a  conspiracy  of  silence  on  the  part  of  the  trade  to 
keep  hidden  the  names  of  the  men  who  are  respon 
sible  for  all  this). 

However  many  years  it  may  be  that  dentists  have 
been  plying  their  trade,  in  all  that  time  people  have 
never  tired  of  talking  about  their  teeth.  This  is 
probably  due  to  the  inscrutable  workings  of  Nature 
who  is  always  supplying  new  teeth  to  talk  about. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  actual  time  and  suffering 
in  the  chair  is  only  a  fraction  of  the  gross  expendi 
ture  connected  with  the  affair.  The  preliminary 
period,  about  which  nobody  talks,  is  much  the 
worse.  This  dates  from  the  discovery  of  the  way- 

[132] 


THE  TOOTH  AND  THE  WHOLE  TOOTH 

ward  tooth  and  extends  to  the  moment  when  the 
dentist  places  his  foot  on  the  automatic  hoist  which 
jacks  you  up  into  range.  Giving  gas  for  tooth- 
extraction  is  all  very  humane  in  its  way,  but  the 
time  for  anaesthetics  is  when  the  patient  first  de 
cides  that  he  must  go  to  the  dentist.  From  then 
on,  until  the  first  excavation  is  started,  should  be 
shrouded  in  oblivion. 

There  is  probably  no  moment  more  appalling  than 
that  in  which  the  tongue,  running  idly  over  the 
teeth  in  a  moment  of  care-free  play,  comes  suddenly 
upon  the  ragged  edge  of  a  space  from  which  the 
old  familiar  filling  has  disappeared.  The  world 
stops  and  you  look  meditatively  up  to  the  corner 
of  the  ceiling.  Then  quickly  you  draw  your  tongue 
away,  and  try  to  laugh  the  affair  off,  saying  to 
yourself: 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense,  my  good  fellow!  There  is 
nothing  the  matter  with  your  tooth.  Your  nerves 
are  upset  after  a  hard  day's  work,  that's  all." 

Having  decided  this  to  your  satisfaction,  you 
slyly,  and  with  a  poor  attempt  at  being  casual, 
slide  the  tongue  back  along  the  line  of  adjacent 
teeth,  hoping  against  hope  that  it  will  reach  the 
end  without  mishap. 

But  there  it  is!  There  can  be  no  doubt  about 
it  this  time.  The  tooth  simply  has  got  to  be  filled 

[133] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

by  someone,  and  the  only  person  who  can  fill  it 
with  anything  permanent  is  a  dentist.  You  wonder 
if  you  might  not  be  able  to  patch  it  up  yourself  for 
the  time  being,  —  a  year  or  so  —  perhaps  with  a 
little  spruce-gum  and  a  coating  of  new-skin.  It  is 
fairly  far  back,  and  wouldn't  have  to  be  a  very 
sightly  job. 

But  this  has  an  impracticable  sound,  even  to  you. 
You  might  want  to  eat  some  peanut-brittle  (you 
never  can  tell  when  someone  might  offer  you 
peanut-brittle  these  days),  and  the  new-skin,  while 
serviceable  enough  in  the  case  of  cream  soups  and 
custards,  couldn't  be  expected  to  stand  up  under 
heavy  crunching. 

So  you  admit  that,  since  the  thing  has  got  to 
be  filled,  it  might  as  well  be  a  dentist  who  does  the 
job. 

This  much  decided,  all  that  is  necessary  is  to 
call  him  up  and  make  an  appointment. 

Let  us  say  that  this  resolve  is  made  on  Tuesday. 
That  afternoon  you  start  to  look  up  the  dentist's 
number  in  the  telephone-book.  A  great  wave  of 
relief  sweeps  over  you  when  you  discover  that  it 
isn't  there.  How  can  you  be  expected  to  make  an 
appointment  with  a  man  who  hasn!'t  got  a  tele 
phone?  And  how  can  you  have  a  tooth  filled  with 
out  making  an  appointment?  The  whole  thing  is 

[134] 


THE  TOOTH  AND  THE  WHOLE  TOOTH 

impossible,  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it.  God  knows 
you  did  your  best. 

On  Wednesday  there  is  a  slightly  more  insistent 
twinge,  owing  to  bad  management  of  a  sip  of  ice- 
water.  You  decide  that  you  simply  must  get  in 
touch  with  that  dentist  when  you  get  back  from 
lunch.  But  you  know  how  those  things  are.  First 
one  thing  and  then  another  came  up,  and  a  man 
came  in  from  Providence  who  had  to  be  shown 
around  the  office,  and  by  the  time  you  had  a  minute 
to  yourself  it  was  five  o'clock.  And,  anyway,  the 
tooth  didn't  bother  you  again.  You  wouldn't  be 
surprised  if,  by  being  careful,  you  could  get  along 
with  it  as  it  is  until  the  end  of  the  week  when  you 
will  have  more  time.  A  man  has  to  think  of  his 
business,  after  all,  and  what  is  a  little  personal 
discomfort  in  the  shape  of  an  unfilled  tooth  to  the 
satisfaction  of  work  well  done  in  the  office? 

By  Saturday  morning  you  are  fairly  reconciled 
to  going  ahead,  but  it  is  only  a  half  day  and  prob 
ably  he  has  no  appointments  left,  anyway.  Mon 
day  is  really  the  time.  You  can  begin  the  week 
afresh.  After  all,  Monday  is  really  the  logical  day 
to  start  in  going  to  the  dentist. 

Bright  and  early  Monday  morning  you  make 
another  try  at  the  telephone-book,  and  find,  to  your 
horror,  that  some  time  between  now  and  last  Tues- 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

day  the  dentist's  name  and  number  have  been 
inserted  into  the  directory.  There  it  is.  There  is 
no  getting  around  it:  "  Burgess,  Jas.  Kendal,  DBS. 
.  .  .  Courtland  —  2654".  There  is  really  nothing 
left  to  do  but  to  call  him  up.  Fortunately  the  line 
is  busy,  which  gives  you  a  perfectly  good  excuse 
for  putting  it  over  until  Tuesday.  But  on  Tues 
day  luck  is  against  you  and  you  get  a  clear  con 
nection  with  the  doctor  himself.  An  appointment 
is  arranged  for  Thursday  afternoon  at  3:30. 

Thursday  afternoon,  and  here  it  is  only  Tuesday 
morning!  Almost  anything  may  happen  between 
now  and  then.  We  might  declare  war  on  Mexico, 
and  off  you'd  have  to  go,  dentist  appointment  or  no 
dentist  appointment.  Surely  a  man  couldn't  let 
a  date  to  have  a  tooth  filled  stand  in  the  way  of  his 
doing  his  duty  to  his  country.  Or  the  social  revo 
lution  might  start  on  Wednesday,  and  by  Thursday 
the  whole  town  might  be  in  ashes.  You  can  picture 
yourself  standing,  Thursday  afternoon  at  3.30  on 
the  ruins  of  the  City  Hall,  fighting  off  marauding 
bands  of  reds,  and  saying  to  yourself,  with  a  sigh 
of  relief:  "Only  to  think!  At  this  time  I  was  to 
have  been  climbing  into  the  dentist's  chair!  "  You 
never  can  tell  when  your  luck  will  turn  in  a  thing 
like  that. 

But  Wednesday  goes  by  and  nothing  happens. 

1 136 1 


THE  TOOTH  AND  THE  WHOLE  TOOTH 

And  Thursday  morning  dawns  without  even  a  word 
from  the  dentist  saying  that  he  has  been  called 
suddenly  out  of  town  to  lecture  before  the  Incisor 
Club.  Apparently,  everything  is  working  against 
you. 

By  this  time,  your  tongue  has  taken  up  a  perma 
nent  resting-place  in  the  vacant  tooth,  and  is 
causing  you  to  talk  indistinctly  and  incoherently. 
Somehow  you  feel  that  if  the  dentist  opens  your 
mouth  and  finds  the  tip  of  your  tongue  in  the  tooth, 
he  will  be  deceived  and  go  away  without  doing 
anything. 

The  only  thing  left  is  for  you  to  call  him  up  and 
say  that  you  have  just  killed  a  man  and  are  being 
arrested  and  can't  possibly  keep  your  appointment. 
But  any  dentist  would  see  through  that.  He  would 
laugh  right  into  his  transmitter  at  you.  There  is 
probably  no  excuse  which  it  would  be  possible  to 
invent  which  a  dentist  has  not  already  heard  eighty 
or  ninety  times.  No,  you  might  as  well  see  the 
thing  through  now. 

Luncheon  is  a  ghastly  rite.  The  whole  left  side 
of  your  jaw  has  suddenly  developed  an  acute  sensi 
tiveness  and  the  disaffection  has  spread  to  the  four 
teeth  on  either  side  of  the  original  one.  You  doubt 
if  it  will  be  possible  for  him  to  touch  it  at  all. 
Perhaps  all  he  intends  to  do  this  time  is  to  look  at 

[1371 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

it  anyway.  You  might  even  suggest  that  to  him. 
You  could  very  easily  come  in  again  soon  and  have 
him  do  the  actual  work. 

Three-thirty  draws  near.  A  horrible  time  of  day 
at  best.  Just  when  a  man's  vitality  is  lowest.  Be 
fore  stepping  in  out  of  the  sunlight  into  the 
building  in  which  the  dental  parlor  is,  you  take  one 
look  about  you  at  the  happy  people  scurrying  by 
in  the  street.  Carefree  children  that  they  are! 
What  do  they  know  of  Life?  Probably  that  man 
in  the  silly-looking  hat  never  had  trouble  with  so 
much  as  his  baby-teeth.  There  they  go,  pushing 
and  jostling  each  other,  just  as  if  within  ten  feet 
of  them  there  was  not  a  man  who  stands  on  the 
brink  of  the  Great  Misadventure.  Ah  well!  Life 
is  like  that! 

Into  the  elevator.  The  last  hope  is  gone.  The 
door  clangs  and  you  look  hopelessly  about  you  at 
the  stupid  faces  of  your  fellow  passengers.  How 
can  people  be  so  clownish?  Of  course,  there  is 
always  the  chance  that  the  elevator  will  fall  and 
that  you  will  all  be  terribly  hurt.  But  that  is  too 
much  to  expect.  You  dismiss  it  from  your  thoughts 
as  too  impractical,  too  visionary.  Things  don't 
work  out  as  happily  as  that  in  real  life. 

You  feel  a  certain  glow  of  heroic  pride  when  you 
tell  the  operator  the  right  floor  number.  You  might 

[138] 


THE  TOOTH  AND  THE  WHOLE  TOOTH 

just  as  easily  have  told  him  a  floor  too  high  or  too 
low,  and  that  would,  at  least,  have  caused  delay. 
But  after  all,  a  man  must  prove  himself  a  man  and 
the  least  you  can  do  is  to  meet  Fate  with  an  unflinch 
ing  eye  and  give  the  right  floor  number. 

Too  often  has  the  scene  in  the  dentist's  waiting- 
room  been  described  for  me  to  try  to  do  it  again 
here.  They  are  all  alike.  The  antiseptic  smell, 
the  ominous  hum  from  the  operating-rooms,  the  1921 
"  Literary  Digests,"  and  the  silent,  sullen,  group 
of  waiting  patients,  each  trying  to  look  unconcerned 
and  cordially  disliking  everyone  else  in  the  room, 
—  all  these  have  been  sung  by  poets  of  far  greater 
lyric  powers  than  mine.  (Not  that  I  really  think 
that  they  are  greater  than  mine,  but  that's  the  cus 
tomary  form  of  excuse  for  not  writing  something 
you  haven't  got  time  or  space  to  do.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  I  think  I  could  do  it  much  better  than  it 
has  ever  been  done  before). 

I  can  only  say  that,  as  you  sit  looking,  with 
unseeing  eyes,  through  a  large  book  entitled,  "  The 
Great  War  in  Pictures,"  you  would  gladly  change 
places  with  the  most  lowly  of  God's  creatures.  It 
is  inconceivable  that  there  should  be  anyone  worse 
off  than  you,  unless  perhaps  it  is  some  of  the  poor 
wretches  who  are  waiting  with  you. 

That  one  over  in  the  arm-chair,  nervously  tearing 

[i39] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

to  shreds  a  copy  of  "  The  Dental  Review  and  Prac 
tical  Inlay  Worker."  She  may  have  something 
frightful  the  trouble  with  her.  She  couldn't  pos 
sibly  look  more  worried.  Perhaps  it  is  very,  very 
painful.  This  thought  cheers  you  up  considerably. 
What  cowards  women  are  in  times  like  these! 

And  then  there  comes  the  sound  of  voices  from 
the  next  room. 

"  All  right.  Doctor,  and  if  it  gives  me  any  more 
pain  shall  I  call  you  up?  ....  Do  you  think  that 
it  will  bleed  much  more?  ....  Saturday  morning, 
then,  at  eleven.  .  .  .  Good  bye,  Doctor." 

And  a  middle-aged  woman  emerges  (all  women 
are  middle-aged  when  emerging  from  the  dentist's 
office)  looking  as  if  she  were  playing  the  big  emo 
tional  scene  in  "  John  Ferguson."  A  wisp  of  hair 
waves  dissolutely  across  her  forehead  between  her 
eyes.  Her  face  is  pale,  except  for  a  slight  inflam 
mation  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth,  and  in  her  eyes 
is  that  far-away  look  of  one  who  has  been  face  to 
face  with  Life.  But  she  is  through.  She  should 
care  how  she  looks. 

The  nurse  appears,  and  looks  inquiringly  at  each 
one  in  the  room.  Each  one  in  the  room  evades  the 
nurse's  glance  in  one  last,  futile  attempt  to  fool 
someone  and  get  away  without  seeing  the  dentist. 
But  she  spots  you  and  nods  pleasantly.  God,  how 

[  140] 


You  would  gladly  change  places  with  the  most  lawless  of 
God's  creatures. 


THE  TOOTH  AND  THE  WHOLE  TOOTH 

pleasantly  she  nods!  There  ought  to  be  a  law 
against  people  being  as  pleasant  as  that. 

"  The  doctor  will  see  you  now,"  she  says. 

The  English  language  may  hold  a  more  disagree 
able  combination  of  words  than  "  The  doctor  will 
see  you  now."  I  am  willing  to  concede  some 
thing  to  the  phrase  "  Have  you  anything  to  say 
before  the  current  is  turned  on."  That  may  be 
worse  for  the  moment,  but  it  doesn't  last  so  long. 
For  continued,  unmitigating  depression,  I  know 
nothing  to  equal  "  The  doctor  will  see  you  now." 
But  I'm  not  narrow-minded  about  it.  I'm  willing 
to  consider  other  possibilities. 

Smiling  feebly,  you  trip  over  the  extended  feet 
of  the  man  next  to  you,  and  stagger  into  the 
delivery-room,  where,  amid  a  ghastly  array  of 
death-masks  of  teeth,  blue  flames  waving  eerily 
from  Bunsen  burners,  and  the  drowning  sound  of 
perpetually  running  water  which  chokes  and  gurgles 
at  intervals,  you  sink  into  the  chair  and  close  your 
eyes. 

But  now  let  us  consider  the  spiritual  exaltation 
that  comes  when  you  are  at  last  let  down  and  turned 
loose.  It  is  all  over,  and  what  did  it  amount  to? 
Why,  nothing  at  all.  A-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!  Noth 
ing  at  all. 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

You  suddenly  develop  a  particular  friendship  for 
the  dentist.  A  splendid  fellow,  really.  You  ask 
him  questions  about  his  instruments.  What  does 
he  use  this  thing  for,  for  instance?  Well,  well,  to 
think  of  a  little  thing  like  that  making  all  that 
trouble.  A-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha !  .  .  .  And  the  dentist's 
family,  how  are  they?  Isn't  that  fine! 

Gaily  you  shake  hands  with  him  and  straighten 
your  tie.  Forgotten  is  the  fact  that  you  have  an 
other  appointment  with  him  for  Monday.  There 
is  no  such  thing  as  Monday.  You  are  through  for 
today,  and  all's  right  with  the  world. 

As  you  pass  out  through  the  waiting-room,  you 
leer  at  the  others  unpleasantly.  The  poor  fishes! 
Why  can't  they  take  their  medicine  like  grown 
people  and  not  sit  there  moping  as  if  they  were 
going  to  be  shot? 

Heigh-ho!  Here's  the  elevator-man!  A  charm 
ing  fellow!  You  wonder  if  he  knows  that  you  have 
just  had  a  tooth  filled.  You  feel  tempted  to  tell 
him  and  slap  him  on  the  back.  You  feel  tempted 
to  tell  everyone  out  in  the  bright,  cheery  street. 
And  what  a  wonderful  street  it  is  too!  All  full  of 
nice,  black  snow  and  water.  After  all,  Life  is  sweet! 

And  then  you  go  and  find  the  first  person  whom 
you  can  accost  without  being  arrested  and  explain 
to  him  just  what  it  was  that  the  dentist  did  to  you, 


THE  TOOTH  AND  THE  WHOLE  TOOTH 

and  how  you  felt,  and  what  you  have  got  to  have 
done  next  time. 

Which  brings  us  right  back  to  where  we  were 
in  the  beginning,  and  perhaps  accounts  for  every 
one's  liking  to  divulge  their  dental  secrets  to  others. 
It  may  be  a  sort  of  hysterical  relief  that,  for  the 
time  being,  it  is  all  over  with. 


XXVIII 
MALIGNANT   MIRRORS 

AS  a  rule,  I  try  not  to  look  into  mirrors  any 
more  than  is  absolutely  necessary.  Things 
are  depressing  enough  as  they  are  without  my  going 
out  of  my  way  to  make  myself  miserable. 

But  every  once  in  a  while  it  is  unavoidable. 
There  are  certain  mirrors  in  town  with  which  I 
am  brought  face  to  face  on  occasion  and  there  is 
nothing  to  do  but  make  the  best  of  it.  I  have 
come  to  classify  them  according  to  the  harshness 
with  which  they  fling  the  truth  into  my  face. 

I  am  unquestionably  at  my  worst  in  the  mirror 
before  which  I  try  on  hats.  I  may  have  been  going 
along  all  winter  thinking  of  other  things,  dwelling 
on  what  people  tell  me  is  really  a  splendid  spiritual 
side  to  my  nature,  thinking  of  myself  as  rather  a 
fine  sort  of  person,  not  dashing  perhaps,  but  one 
from  whose  countenance  shines  a  great  light  of 
honesty  and  courage  which  is  even  more  to  be 
desired  than  physical  beauty.  I  rather  imagine  that 
little  children  on  the  street  and  grizzled  Supreme 


MALIGNANT  MIRRORS 

Court  justices  out  for  a  walk  turn  as  I  pass  and 
say  "  A  fine  face.  Plain,  but  fine." 

Then  I  go  in  to  buy  a  hat.  The  mirror  in  the 
hat  store  is  triplicate,  so  that  you  see  yourself  not 
only  head-on  but  from  each  side.  The  appearance 
that  I  present  to  myself  in  this  mirror  is  that  of 
three  police-department  photographs  showing  all 
possible  approaches  to  the  face  of  Harry  DuChamps, 
alias  Harry  Duval,  alias  Harry  Duffy,  wanted  hi 
Rochester  for  the  murder  of  Nettie  Lubitch,  age  5. 
All  that  is  missing  is  the  longitudinal  scar  across 
the  right  cheek. 

I  have  never  seen  a  meaner  face  than  mine  is  in 
the  hat-store  mirror.  I  could  stand  its  not  being 
handsome.  I  could  even  stand  looking  weak  in  an 
attractive,  man-about-town  sort  of  way.  But  in 
the  right  hand  mirror  there  confronts  me  a  hang 
dog  face,  the  face  of  a  yellow  craven,  while  at  the 
left  leers  an  even  more  repulsive  type,  sensual  and 
cruel. 

Furthermore,  even  though  I  have  had  a  hair-cut 
that  very  day,  there  is  an  unkempt  fringe  showing 
over  my  collar  in  back  and  the  collar  itself,  (a 
Wimpet,  14^,  which  looked  so  well  on  the  young 
man  in  the  car-card)  seems  to  be  something  that 
would  be  worn  by  a  Maine  guide  when  he  goes  into 
Portland  for  the  day.  My  suit  needs  pressing  and 

[145] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

there  is  a  general  air  of  its  having  been  given  to 
me,  with  ten  dollars,  by  the  State  on  my  departure 
from  Sing  Sing  the  day  before. 

But  for  an  unfavorable  full-length  view,  nothing 
can  compare  with  the  one  that  I  get  of  myself  as 
I  pass  the  shoe-store  on  the  corner.  They  have  a 
mirror  in  the  window,  so  set  that  it  catches  the  re 
flection  of  people  as  they  step  up  on  the  curb.  When 
there  are  other  forms  in  the  picture  it  is  not  always 
easy  to  identify  yourself  at  first,  especially  at  a 
distance,  and  every  morning  on  my  way  to  work, 
unless  I  deliberately  avert  my  face,  I  am  mortified 
to  discover  that  the  unpleasant-looking  man,  with 
the  rather  effeminate,  swinging  gait,  whom  I  see 
mincing  along  through  the  crowd,  is  none  other  than 
myself. 

The  only  good  mirror  in  the  list  is  the  one  in  the 
elevator  of  my  clothing-store.  There  is  a  subdued 
light  in  the  car,  a  sort  of  golden  glow  which  softens 
and  idealizes,  and  the  mirror  shows  only  a  two-thirds 
length,  making  it  impossible  to  see  how  badly  the 
cuffs  on  my  trousers  bag  over  the  tops  of  my  shoes. 
Here  I  become  myself  again.  I  have  even  thought 
that  I  might  be  handsome  if  I  paid  as  much  attention 
to  my  looks  as  some  men  do.  In  this  mirror,  my 
clothes  look  (for  the  last  time)  as  similar  clothes 
look  on  well-dressed  men.  A  hat  which  is  in  every 


I  am  mortified  to  discover  that  the  unpleasant  looking  man 
is  none  other  than  myself. 


MALIGNANT  MIRRORS 

respect  perfect  when  seen  here,  immediately  be 
comes  a  senatorial  sombrero  when  I  step  out  into 
the  street,  but  for  the  brief  space  of  time  while  I  am 
in  that  elevator,  I  am  the  distingue,  clean-cut, 
splendid  figure  of  a  man  that  the  original  blue-prints 
called  for.  I  wonder  if  it  takes  much  experience 
to  run  an  elevator,  for  if  it  doesn't,  I  would  like  to 
make  my  life-work  running  that  car  with  the  magic 
mirror. 


[147] 


XXIX 

THE   POWER   OF   THE    PRESS 

THE  Police  Commissioner  of  New  York  City 
explains  the  wave  of  crime  in  that  city  by 
blaming  the  newspapers.  The  newspapers,  he  says, 
are  constantly  printing  accounts  of  robberies  and 
murders,  and  these  accounts  simply  encourage  other 
criminals  to  come  to  New  York  and  do  the  same. 
If  the  papers  would  stop  giving  all  this  publicity  to 
crime,  the  crooks  might  forget  that  there  was  such 
a  thing.  As  it  is,  they  read  about  it  in  their  news 
papers  every  morning,  and  sooner  or  later  have  to 
go  out  and  try  it  for  themselves. 

This  is  a  terrible  thought,  but  suggests  a  con 
venient  alibi  for  other  errant  citizens.  Thus  we 
may  read  the  following  NEWS  NOTES: 

Benjamin  W.  Gleam,  age  forty-two,  of  1946 
Ruby  Avenue,  The  Bronx,  was  arrested  last  night 
for  appearing  in  the  Late  Byzantine  Room  of  the 
Museum  of  Fine  Arts  clad  only  in  a  suit  of  medium- 
weight  underwear.  When  questioned  Gleam  said 
that  he  had  seen  so  many  pictures  in  the  newspaper 
advertisements  of  respectable  men  and  women  going 
[148] 


THE  POWER  OF  THE  PRESS 

about  in  their  underwear,  drinking  tea,  jumping 
hurdles  and  holding  family  reunions,  that  he  simply 
couldn't  stand  it  any  longer,  and  had  to  try  it  for 
himself.  "The  newspapers  did  it,"  he  is  quoted  as 
saying. 

Mrs.  Leonia  M.  Eggcup,  who  was  arrested  yester 
day  on  the  charge  of  bigamy,  issued  a  statement 
today  through  her  attorneys,  Wine,  Women  and 
Song. 

"  I  am  charged  with  having  eleven  husbands,  all 
living  in  various  parts  of  the  United  States,"  reads 
the  statement.  "  This  charge  is  correct.  But  be 
fore  I  pay  the  extreme  penalty,  I  want  to  have  the 
public  understand  that  I  am  not  to  blame.  It  is 
the  fault  of  the  press  of  this  country.  Day  after 
day  I  read  the  list  of  marriages  in  my  morning 
paper.  Day  after  day  I  saw  people  after  people 
getting  married.  Finally  the  thing  got  into  my 
blood,  and  although  I  was  married  at  the  time,  I 
felt  that  I  simply  had  to  be  married  again.  Then, 
no  sooner  would  I  become  settled  in  my  new  home, 
than  the  constant  incitement  to  further  matrimonial 
ventures  would  come  through  the  columns  of  the 
daily  press.  I  fell,  it  is  true,  but  if  there  is  any 
justice  in  this  land,  it  will  be  the  newspapers  and 
not  I  who  will  suffer." 


XXX 

HOME   FOR   THE   HOLIDAYS 

AS  a  pretty  tribute  to  that  element  of  our  popu 
lation  which  is  under  twenty-two  years  of  age, 
these  are  called  "  the  Holidays." 

This  is  the  only  chance  that  the  janitors  of  the 
schools  and  colleges  have  to  soak  the  floors  of  the 
recitation  halls  with  oil  to  catch  the  dust  of  the  next 
semester,  and  while  this  is  being  done  there  is  noth 
ing  to  do  with  the  students  but  to  send  them  home 
for  a  week  or  two.  Thus  it  happened  that  the 
term  "  holidays  "  is  applied  to  that  period  of  the 
year  when  everybody  else  is  working  just  twice  as 
hard  and  twice  as  long  during  the  week  to  make  up 
for  that  precious  day  which  must  be  lost  to  the  Sales 
Campaign  or  the  Record  Output  on  Christmas  Day. 

For  those  who  are  home  from  school  and  college 
it  is  called,  in  the  catalogues  of  their  institutions, 
a  "  recess  "  or  "  vacation,"  and  the  general  impres 
sion  is  allowed  to  get  abroad  among  the  parents 
that  it  is  to  be  a  period  of  rest  and  recuperation. 
Arthur  and  Alice  have  been  working  so  hard  at 
school  or  college  that  two  weeks  of  good  quiet  home- 

[ISO] 


HOME  FOR  THE  HOLIDAYS 

life  and  home  cooking  will  put  them  right  on  their 
feet  again,  ready  to  pitch  into  that  chemistry  course 
in  which,  owing  to  an  incompetent  instructor,  they 
did  not  do  very  well  last  term. 

That  the  theory  of  rest  during  vacation  is  falla 
cious  can  be  proved  by  hiding  in  the  coat  closet  of 
the  home  of  any  college  or  school  youth  home  for 
Christmas  recess.  Admission  to  the  coat  closet  may 
be  forced  by  making  yourself  out  to  be  a  govern 
ment  official  or  an  inspector  of  gas  meters.  Once 
hidden  among  the  overshoes,  you  will  overhear  the 
following  little  earnest  drama,  entitled  "  Home  for 
the  Holidays." 

There  was  a  banging  of  the  front  door,  and  Edgar 
has  arrived.  A  round  of  kisses,  an  exchange  of 
health  reports,  and  Edgar  is  bounding  upstairs. 

"  Dinner  in  half  an  hour,"  says  Mother. 

"  Sorry,"  shouts  Edgar  from  the  bath-tub,  "  but 
I've  got  to  go  out  to  the  Whortleberry's  to  a  dinner 
dance.  Got  the  bid  last  week.  Say,  have  I  got  any 
dress-studs  at  home  here?  Mine  are  in  my  trunk." 

Father's  studs  are  requisitioned  and  the  family 
cluster  at  Edgar's  door  to  slide  in  a  few  conversa 
tional  phrases  while  he  is  getting  the  best  of  his 
dress  shirt. 

"  How  have  you  been?  "  (Three  guesses  as  to 
who  it  is  that  asks  this.) 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

"  Oh,  all  right.  Say,  have  I  got  any  pumps  at 
home?  Mine  are  in  the  trunk.  Where  are  those 
old  ones  I  had  last  summer?  " 

"  Don't  you  want  me  to  tie  your  tie  for  you?  " 
(Two  guesses  as  to  who  it  is  that  asks  this.) 

"  No,  thanks.  Can  I  get  my  laundry  done  by 
tomorrow  night?  I've  got  to  go  out  to  the  Clamps' 
at  Short  Neck  for  over  the  week-end  to  a  bob- 
sledding  party,  and  when  I  get  back  from  there 
Mrs.  Dibble  is  giving  a  dinner  and  theatre  party." 

"  Don't  you  want  to  eat  a  little  dinner  here  be 
fore  you  go  to  the  Whortleberry's?  "  (One  guess 
as  to  who  it  is  that  asks  this.) 

But  Edgar  has  bounded  down  the  stairs  and  left 
the  Family  to  comfort  each  other  with  such  observa 
tions  as  "  He  looks  tired/'  "  I  think  that  he  has 
filled  out  a  little,"  or  "  I  wonder  if  he's  studying 
too  hard." 

You  might  stay  in  the  coat-closet  for  the  entire 
two  weeks  and  not  hear  much  more  of  Edgar  than 
this.  His  parents  don't.  They  catch  him  as  he  is 
going  up  and  down  stairs  and  while  he  is  putting 
the  studs  into  his  shirt,  and  are  thankful  for  that. 
They  really  get  into  closer  touch  with  him  while 
he  is  at  college,  for  he  writes  them  a  weekly  letter 
then. 

Nerve-racking  as  this  sort  of  life  is  to  the  youth 

[152] 


HOME  FOR  THE  HOLIDAYS 

who  is  supposed  to  be  resting  during  his  vacation, 
it  might  be  even  more  wearing  if  he  were  to  stay 
within  the  Family  precincts.  Once  in  a  while  one 
of  the  parties  for  which  he  has  been  signed  up  falls 
through,  and  he  is  forced  to  spend  the  evening  at 
home.  At  first  it  is  somewhat  embarrassing  to  be 
thrown  in  with  strangers  for  a  meal  like  that,  but, 
as  the  evening  wears  on,  the  ice  is  broken  and 
things  assume  a  more  easy  swing.  The  Family  be 
gins  to  make  remarks. 

"  You  must  stand  up  straighter,  my  boy,"  says 
Father,  placing  his  hand  between  Edgar's  shoulder- 
blades.  "  You  are  slouching  badly.  I  noticed  it  as 
you  walked  down  the  street  this  morning." 

"  Do  all  the  boys  wear  soft-collared  shirts  like 
that?  "  asks  Mother.  "  Personally,  I  think  that  they 
look  very  untidy.  They  are  all  right  for  tennis 
and  things  like  that,  but  I  wish  you'd  put  on  a 
starched  collar  when  you  are  in  the  house.  You 
never  see  Elmer  Quiggly  wearing  a  collar  like  that. 
He  always  looks  neat." 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  Eddie,"  says  Sister,  "  take 
off  that  tie.  You  certainly  do  get  the  most  terrific- 
looking  things  to  put  around  your  neck.  It  looks 
like  a  Masonic  apron.  Let  me  go  with  you  when 
you  buy  your  next  batch." 

By  this  time  Edgar  has  his  back  against  the  wall 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

and  is  breathing  hard.  What  do  these  folks  know 
of  what  is  being  done? 

If  it  is  not  family  heckling  it  may  be  that  even 
more  insidious  trial,  the  third  degree.  This  is  usu 
ally  inflicted  by  semi-relatives  and  neighbors.  The 
formulae  are  something  like  this: 

"Well,  how  do  you  like  your  school?  " 

"  I  suppose  you  have  plenty  of  time  for  pranks, 
eh?" 

"  What  a  good  time  you  boys  must  have!  It  isn't 
so  much  what  you  get  out  of  books  that  will  help 
you  in  after  life,  I  have  found,  but  the  friendships 
made  in  college.  Meeting  so  many  boys  from  all 
parts  of  the  country  —  why,  it's  a  liberal  education 
in  itself." 

"  What  was  the  matter  with  the  football  team 
this  season?  " 

"  Let's  see,  how  many  more  years  have  you? 
What,  only  one  more!  Well,  well,  and  I  can  re 
member  you  when  you  were  that  high,  anc*  used  to 
come  over  to  my  house  wearing  a  little  green  dress, 
with  big  mother-of-pearl  buttons.  You  certainly 
were  a  cute  little  boy,  and  used  to  call  our  cook 
'  Sna-sna.'  And  here  you  are,  almost  a  senior." 

"  Oh,  are  you  1924?  I  wonder  if  you  know  a 
fellow  named  —  er  —  Hellish  —  Spencer  Mellish? 
I  met  him  at  the  beach  last  summer.  I  am  pretty 


"I  can  remember  you  when  you  were  that  high.' 


HOME  FOR  THE  HOLIDAYS 

sure  that  he  is  in  your  class  —  well,  no,  maybe  it 
was  1918." 

After  an  hour  or  two  of  this  Edgar  is  willing  to 
go  back  to  college  and  take  an  extra  course  in  Black- 
smithing,  Chipping  and  Filing,  given  during  the 
Christmas  vacation,  rather  than  run  the  risk  of  get 
ting  caught  again.  And,  whichever  way  you  look 
at  it,  whether  he  spends  his  time  getting  into  and 
out  of  his  evening  clothes,  or  goes  crazy  answering 
questions  and  defending  his  mode  of  dress,  it  all 
adds  up  to  the  same  in  the  end  —  fatigue  and  de 
pletion  and  what  the  doctor  would  call  "  a  general 
run-down  nervous  condition." 

The  younger  you  are  the  more  frayed  you  get. 
Little  Wilbur  comes  home  from  school,  where  he 
has  been  put  to  bed  at  8:30  every  night  with  the 
rest  of  the  fifth  form  boys,  and  has  had  to  brush 
his  hair  in  the  presence  of  the  head-master's  wife, 
and  dives  into  what  might  be  called  a  veritable 
maelstrom  of  activity.  From  a  diet  of  cereal  and 
fruit-whips,  he  is  turned  loose  in  the  butler's  pantry 
among  the  maraschino  cherries  and  given  a  free  rein 
at  the  various  children's  parties,  where  individual 
pound-cake  Santas  and  brandied  walnuts  are  fol 
lowed  by  an  afternoon  at  "  Treasure  Island,"  with 
the  result  that  he  comes  home  and  insists  on  tipping 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

every  one  in  the  family  the  black  spot  and  breaks 
the  cheval  glass  when  he  is  denied  going  to  the  six- 
day  bicycle  race  at  two  in  the  morning. 

Little  girls  do  practically  the  same,  and,  if  they 
are  over  fourteen,  go  back  to  school  with  the  added 
burden  of  an  affaire  de  occur  contracted  during  the 
recess.  In  general,  it  takes  about  a  month  or  two 
of  good,  hard  schooling  and  overstudy  to  put  the 
child  back  on  its  feet  after  the  Christmas  rest  at 
home. 

Which  leads  us  to  the  conclusion  that  our  edu 
cational  system  is  all  wrong.  It  is  obvious  that  the 
child  should  be  kept  at  home  for  eight  months  out 
of  the  year  and  sent  to  school  for  the  vacations. 


XXXI 

HOW   TO   UNDERSTAND 
INTERNATIONAL   FINANCE 

IT  is  high  time  that  someone  came  out  with  a 
clear  statement  of  the  international  financial 
situation.  For  weeks  and  weeks  officials  have  been 
rushing  about  holding  conferences  and  councils  and 
having  their  pictures  taken  going  up  and  down  the 
steps  of  buildings.  Then,  after  each  conference, 
the  newspapers  have  printed  a  lot  of  figures  show 
ing  the  latest  returns  on  how  much  Germany  owes 
the  bank.  And  none  of  it  means  anything. 

Now  there  is  a  certain  principle  which  has  to 
be  followed  in  all  financial  discussions  involving 
sums  over  one  hundred  dollars.  There  is  probably 
not  more  than  one  hundred  dollars  in  actual  cash  in 
circulation  today.  That  is,  if  you  were  to  call  in 
all  the  bills  and  silver  and  gold  in  the  country  at 
noon  tomorrow  and  pile  them  up  on  the  table,  you 
would  find  that  you  had  just  about  one  hundred 
dollars,  with  perhaps  several  Canadian  pennies  and 
a  few  peppermint  life-savers.  All  the  rest  of  the 
money  you  hear  about  doesn't  exist.  It  is  con- 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

versation-money.  When  you  hear  of  a  transaction 
involving  $50,000,000  it  means  that  one  firm  wrote 
"  50,000,000  "  on  a  piece  of  paper  and  gave  it  to 
another  firm,  and  the  other  firm  took  it  home  and 
said  "Look,  Momma,  I  got  $50,000,000!"  But 
when  Momma  asked  for  a  dollar  and  a  quarter  out 
of  it  to  pay  the  man  who  washed  the  windows,  the 
answer  probably  was  that  the  firm  hadn't  got  more 
than  seventy  cents  in  cash. 

This  is  the  principle  of  finance.  So  long  as  you 
can  pronounce  any  number  above  a  thousand,  you 
have  got  that  much  money.  You  can't  work  this 
scheme  with  the  shoe-store  man  or  the  restaurant- 
owner,  but  it  goes  big  on  Wall  St.  or  in  international 
financial  circles. 

This  much  understood,  we  see  that  when  the 
Allies  demand  132,000,000,000  gold  marks  from 
Germany  they  know  very  well  that  nobody  in  Ger 
many  has  ever  seen  132,000,000,000  gold  marks 
and  never  will.  A  more  surprised  and  disappointed 
lot  of  boys  you  couldn't  ask  to  see  than  the  Supreme 
Financial  Council  would  be  if  Germany  were  actu 
ally  to  send  them  a  money-order  for  the  full  amount 
demanded. 

What  they  mean  is  that,  taken  all  in  all,  Germany 
owes  the  world  132,000,000,000  gold  marks  plus 
carfare.  This  includes  everything,  breakage,  meals 


INTERNATIONAL  FINANCE 

sent  to  room,  good  will,  everything.  Now,  it  is  un 
derstood  that  if  they  really  meant  this,  Germany 
couldn't  even  draw  cards;  so  the  principle  on  which 
the  thing  is  figured  out  is  as  follows:  (Watch  this 
closely;  there  is  a  trick  in  it). 

You  put  down  a  lot  of  figures,  like  this.  Any 
figures  will  do,  so  long  as  you  can't  read  them 
quickly: 

132,000,000,000  gold  marks 
$33,000,000,000  on  a  current  value  basis 
$21,000,000,000  on  reparation  account  plus  12%% 
yearly  tax  on  German  exports 
11,000,000,000  gold  fish 
$1.35  amusement  tax 
866,000  miles.    Diameter  of  the  sun 

2,000,000,000 

27,000,000,000 
31,000,000,000 

Then  you  add  them  together  and  subtract  the 
number  you  first  thought  of.  This  leaves  n.  And 
the  card  you  hold  in  your  hand  is  the  seven  of  dia 
monds.  Am  I  right? 


[159] 


XXXII 
'TWAS  THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  SUMMER 

(An   Imaginary   Watch-Night   with   the   Weather 
Man) 

IT  was  ii  o'clock  on  the  night  of  June  20.  We 
were  seated  in  the  office  of  the  Weather  Bureau 
on  the  twenty-ninth  floor  of  the  Whitehall  Build 
ing,  the  Weather  Man  and  I,  and  we  were  waiting 
for  summer  to  come.  It  was  officially  due  on 
June  21.  We  had  the  almanac's  word  for  it  and 
years  and  years  of  precedent,  but  still  the  Weather 
Man  was  skeptical. 

It  had  been  a  hard  spring  for  the  Weather  Man. 
Day  after  day  he  had  been  forced  to  run  a  signed 
statement  in  the  daily  papers  to  the  effect  that  some 
time  during  that  day  there  would  probably  be 
showers.  And  day  after  day,  with  a  ghastly  con 
sistency,  his  prophecy  had  come  true.  People  had 
come  to  dislike  him  personally;  old  jokes  about 
him  were  brought  out  and  oiled  and  given  a  trial 
spin  down  the  road  a  piece  before  appearing  in 
funny  columns  and  vaudeville  skits,  and  the  sport- 
[160] 


'TWAS  THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  SUMMER 

ing  writers,  frenzied  by  the  task  of  filling  their 
space  with  nothing  but  tables  of  batting  averages, 
had  become  positively  libellous. 

And  now  summer  was  at  hand,  and  with  it  the 
promise  of  the  sun.  The  Weather  Man  nibbled 
at  his  thumb  nail.  The  clock  on  the  wall  said 

11:15- 

"  It  just  couldn't  go  back  on  us  now,"  he  said, 
plaintively,  "  when  it  means  so  much  to  us.  It 
always  has  come  on  the  2ist." 

There  was  not  much  that  I  could  say.  I  didn't 
want  to  hold  out  any  false  hope,  for  I  am  a  child 
in  arms  in  matters  of  astronomy,  or  whatever  it  is 
that  makes  weather. 

"  I  often  remember  hearing  my  father  tell,"  I 
ventured,  "how  every  year  on  the  2ist  of  June 
summer  always  used  to  come,  rain  or  shine,  until 
they  came  to  look  for  it  on  that  date,  and  to  count 
from  then  as  the  beginning  of  the  season.  It  seems 
as  if" 

"  I  know,"  he  interrupted,  "  but  there  have  been 
so  many  upsetting  things  during  the  past  twelve 
months.  We  can't  check  up  this  year  by  any  other 
years.  All  we  can  do  is  wait  and  see." 

A  gust  of  wind  from  Jersey  ran  along  the  side 
of  the  building,  shaking  at  the  windows.  The 
Weather  Man  shuddered,  and  looked  out  of  the 
[161] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

corner  of  his  eye  at  the  anemometer-register  which 
stood  on  a  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  It 
indicated  whatever  anemometers  do  indicate  when 
they  want  to  register  bad  news.  I  considerately 
looked  out  at  the  window. 

"  You've  no  idea,"  he  said  at  last,  in  a  low  voice, 
"  of  how  this  last  rainy  spell  has  affected  my  home 
life.  For  the  first  two  or  three  days,  although  I 
got  dark  looks  from  slight  acquaintances,  there 
was  always  a  cheery  welcome  waiting  for  me  when 
I  got  home,  and  the  Little  Woman  would  say, 
'  Never  mind,  Ray,  it  will  soon  be  pleasant,  and 
we  all  know  that  it's  not  your  fault,  anyway.' 

"  But  then,  after  a  week  had  passed  and  there 
had  been  nothing  but  rain  and  showers  and  rain, 
I  began  to  notice  a  change.  When  I  would  swing 
in  at  the  gate  she  would  meet  me  and  say,  in  a 
far-away  voice,  l  Well,  what  is  it  for  to-morrow?  ' 
And  I  would  have  to  say  '  Probably  cloudy,  with 
occasional  showers  and  light  easterly  gales.'  At 
which  she  would  turn  away  and  bite  her  lip,  and 
once  I  thought  I  saw  her  eye-lashes  wet. 

"  Then,  one  night,  the  break  came.  It  had 
started  out  to  be  a  perfect  day,  just  such  as  one 
reads  about,  but  along  about  noon  it  began  to  cloud 
over  and  soon  the  rain  poured  down  in  rain-gauges- 
full. 

[162] 


She  would  turn  away  and  bite  her  lip. 


'TWAS  THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  SUMMER 

"  I  was  all  discouraged,  and  as  I  wrote  out  the 
forecast  for  the  papers,  l  Rain  to-morrow  and 
Friday/  I  felt  like  giving  the  whole  thing  up  and 
going  back  to  Vermont  to  live. 

"When  I  got  home,  Alice  was  there  with  her 
things  on,  waiting  for  me. 

" '  You  needn't  tell  me  what  it's  going  to  be 
to-morrow/  she  sobbed.  1 1  know.  Every  one 
knows.  The  whole  world  knows.  I  used  to  think 
that  it  wasn't  your  fault,  but  when  the  children 
come  home  from  school  crying  because  they  have 
been  plagued  for  being  the  Weather  Man's  chil 
dren,  when  every  time  I  go  out  I  know  that  the 
neighbors  are  talking  behind  my  back  and  saying 
"  How  does  she  stand  it?  "  when  every  paper  I 
read,  every  bulletin  I  see,  stares  me  in  the  face 
with  great  letters  saying,  "  Weather  Man  predicts 
more  rain,"  or  "  Lynch  the  Weather  Man  and  let 
the  baseball  season  go  on,"  then  I  think  it  is  time 
for  us  to  come  to  an  understanding.  I  am  going 
over  to  mother's  until  you  can  do  better.' " 

The  Weather  Man  got  up  and  went  to  the  win 
dow.  Out  there  over  the  Battery  there  was  a  spot 
casting  a  sickly  glow  through  the  cloud-banks 
which  filled  the  sky. 

"  That's  the  moon  up  there  behind  the  fog,"  he 
said,  and  laughed  a  bitter  cackle. 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

It  was  now  11:45.  The  thermograph  was  writing 
busily  in  red  ink  on  the  little  diagrammed  cuff 
provided  for  that  purpose,  writing  all  about  the 
temperature.  The  Weather  Man  inspected  the  fine, 
jagged  line  as  it  leaked  out  of  the  pen  on  the  chart. 
Then  he  walked  over  to  the  window  again  and 
stood  looking  out  over  the  bay. 

"  You'd  think  that  people  would  have  a  little 
gratitude,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  and  not  hit  at 
a  man  who  has  done  so  much  for  them.  If  it 
weren't  for  me  where  would  the  art  of  American 
conversation  be  to-day?  If  there  were  no  weather 
to  talk  about,  how  could  there  be  any  dinner  parties 
or  church  sociables  or  sidewalk  chats? 

"All  I  have  to  do  is  put  out  a  real  scorcher  or 
a  continued  cold  snap,  and  I  can  drive  off  the 
boards  the  biggest  news  story  that  was  ever  launched 
or  draw  the  teeth  out  of  the  most  delicate  inter 
national  situation. 

"  I  have  saved  more  reputations  and  social 
functions  than  any  other  influence  in  American 
life,  and  yet  here,  when  the  home  office  sends  me  a 
rummy  lot  of  weather,  over  which  I  have  no  con 
trol,  everybody  jumps  on  me." 

He  pulled  savagely  at  the  window  shade  and 
pressed  his  nose  against  the  pane  in  silence  for  a 
while. 

[164] 


'TWAS  THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  SUMMER 

There  was  no  sound  but  the  ticking  of  the 
anemometer  and  the  steady  scratching  of  the  ther 
mograph.  I  looked  at  the  clock.  11:47. 

Suddenly  the  telegraph  over  in  the  corner 
snapped  like  a  bunch  of  firecrackers.  In  a  second 
the  Weather  Man  was  at  its  side,  taking  down  the 
message: 

"  NEW  ORLEANS,  LA  NHRUFKYOTLDMR- 
ELPWZWOTUDK  HEAVY  PRECIPITATION 
SOUTH  WESTERLY  GALES  LETTER  FOL 
LOWS 

NEW  ORLEANS  U  S  WEATHER  BUREAU 

"  Poor  fellow,"  muttered  the  Weather  Man,  who 
even  in  his  own  tense  excitement  did  not  forget  the 
troubles  of  his  brother  weather  prophet  in  New 
Orleans,  "  I  know  just  how  he  feels.  I  hope  he's 
not  married." 

He  glanced  at  the  clock.  It  was  n  :$6.  In  four 
minutes  summer  would  be  due,  and  with  summer 
a  clearer  sky,  renewed  friendships  and  a  united 
family  for  the  Weather  Man.  If  it  failed  him  —  I 
dreaded  to  think  of  what  might  happen.  It  was 
twenty-nine  floors  to  the  pavement  below,  and  I 
am  not  a  powerful  man  physically. 

Together  we  sat  at  the  table  by  the  thermograph 
and  watched  the  red  line  draw  mountain  ranges 

[165] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

along  the  50  degree  line.  From  our  seats  we  could 
look  out  over  the  Statue  of  Liberty  and  see  the 
cloud-dimmed  glow  which  told  of  a  censored  moon. 
The  Weather  Man  was  making  nervous  little  pokes 
at  his  collar,  as  if  it  had  a  rough  edge  that  was 
cutting  his  neck. 

Suddenly  he  gripped  the  table.  Somewhere  a 
clock  was  beginning  to  strike  twelve.  I  shut  my 
eyes  and  waited. 

Ten-eleven-twelve! 

"  Look,  Newspaper  Man,  look!  "  he  shrieked  and 
grabbed  me  by  the  tie. 

I  opened  my  eyes  and  looked  at  the  thermograph. 
At  the  last  stroke  of  the  clock  the  red  line  had  given 
a  little,  final  quaver  on  the  50  degree  line  and  then 
had  shot  up  like  a  rocket  until  it  struck  72  degrees 
and  lay  there  trembling  and  heaving  like  a  runner 
after  a  race. 

But  it  was  not  at  this  that  the  Weather  Man 
was  pointing.  There,  out  in  the  murky  sky,  the 
stroke  of  twelve  had  ripped  apart  the  clouds  and 
a  large,  milk-fed  moon  was  fairly  crashing  its  way 
through,  laying  out  a  straight-away  course  of  silver 
cinders  across  the  harbor,  and  in  all  parts  of  the 
heavens  stars  were  breaking  out  like  a  rash.  In 
two  minutes  it  had  become  a  balmy,  languorous 
night.  Summer  had  come! 
[166] 


'TWAS  THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  SUMMER 

I  turned  to  the  Weather  Man.  He  was  wiping 
the  palms  of  his  hands  on  his  hips  and  looking 
foolishly  happy.  I  said  nothing.  There  was 
nothing  that  could  be  said. 

Before  we  left  the  office  he  stopped  to  write  out 
the  prophecy  for  Wednesday,  June  21,  the  First  Day 
of  Summer.  "  Fair  and  warmer,  with  slowly  rising 
temperatur."  His  hand  trembled  so  as  he  wrote 
that  he  forgot  the  final  "  e  ".  Then  we  went  out  and 
he  turned  toward  his  home. 

On  Wednesday,  June  21,  it  rained. 


XXXIII 
WELCOME   HOME  —  AND    SHUT   UP! 


are  a  few  weeks  which  bid  fair  to  be 
X  pretty  trying  ones  in  our  national  life.  They 
will  mark  the  return  to  the  city  of  thousands  and 
thousands  of  vacationists  after  two  months  or  two 
weeks  of  feverish  recuperation  and  there  is  probably 
no  more  obnoxious  class  of  citizen,  taken  end  for 
end,  than  the  returning  vacationist. 

In  the  first  place,  they  are  all  so  offensively 
healthy.  They  come  crashing  through  the  train- 
shed,  all  brown  and  peeling,  as  if  their  health  were 
something  they  had  acquired  through  some  partic 
ular  credit  to  themselves.  If  it  were  possible,  some 
of  them  would  wear  their  sun-burned  noses  on  their 
watch-chains,  like  Phi  Beta  Kappa  keys. 

They  have  got  so  used  to  going  about  all  summer 
in  bathing  suits  and  shirts  open  at  the  neck  that 
they  look  like  professional  wrestlers  in  stiff  collars 
and  seem  to  be  on  the  point  of  bursting  out  at  any 
minute.  And  they  always  make  a  great  deal  of 
noise  getting  off  the  train. 

"  Where's  Bessie?  "  they  scream,  "  Ned,  where's 
[168] 


WELCOME  HOME  — AND  SHUT  UP! 

Bessie?  .  .  .  Have  you  got  the  thermos  bottles? 
.  .  .  Well,  here's  the  old  station  just  as  it  was  when 
we  left  it  (hysterical  laughter).  .  .  .  Wallace,  you 
simply  must  carry  your  pail  and  shovel.  Mamma 
can't  carry  everything,  you  know.  .  .  .  Mamma 
told  you  that  if  you  wanted  to  bring  your  pail  and 
shovel  home  you  would  have  to  carry  it  yourself, 
don't  you  remember  'Mamma  told  you  that,  Wal 
lace?  .  .  .  Wallace,  listen!  .  .  .  Edna,  have  you 
got  Bessie?  .  .  .  Harry's  gone  after  the  trunks. 
...  At  least,  he  said  that  was  where  he  was  going. 
.  .  .  Look,  there's  the  Dexter  Building,  looking 
just  the  same.  Big  as  life  and  twice  as  natural.  .  .  . 
I  know,  Wallace,  Mamma's  just  as  hot  as  you  are. 
But  you  don't  hear  Mamma  crying  do  you?  ...  I 
wonder  where  Bert  is.  ...  He  said  he'd  be  down 
to  meet  us  sure.  .  .  .  Here,  give  me  that  cape,  Lil 
lian.  .  .  .  You're  dragging  it  all  over  the  ground. 
.  .  .  Here's  Bert!  .  .  .  Whoo-hoo,  Bert!  .  .  . 
Here  we  are!  .  .  .  Spencer,  there's  Daddy!  .  .  . 
Whoo-hoo,  Daddy!  .  .  .  Junior,  wipe  that  gum  off 
your  shoe  this  minute.  .  .  .  Where's  Bessie?  " 

And  so  they  go,  all  the  way  out  into  the  street 
and  the  cab  and  home,  millions  of  them.  It's 
terrible. 

And  when  they  get  home  things  are  just  about  as 
bad,  except  there  aren't  so  many  people  to  see  them. 

[169] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

At  the  sight  of  eight  Sunday  and  sixty-two  daily  pa 
pers  strewn  over  the  front  porch  and  lawn,  there  are 
loud  screams  of  imprecation  at  Daddy  for  having 
forgotten  to  order  them  stopped.  Daddy  insists 
that  he  did  order  them  stopped  and  that  it  is  that 
damn  fool  boy. 

"  I  guess  you  weren't  home  much  during  July," 
says  Mamma  bitterly,  "  or  you  would  have  noticed 
that  something  was  wrong."  (Daddy  didn't  join 
the  family  until  August.) 

"  There  were  no  papers  delivered  during 
July,"  says  Daddy  very  firmly  and  quietly, 
"at  least,  I  didn't  see  any."  (Stepping  on  one 
dated  July  19.) 

The  inside  of  the  house  resembles  some  place 
you  might  bet  a  man  a  hundred  dollars  he  daren't 
spend  the  night  in.  Dead  men's  feet  seem  to  be 
protruding  from  behind  sofas  and  there  is  a  damp 
smell  as  if  the  rooms  had  been  closed  pending  the 
arrival  of  the  coroner. 

Junior  runs  upstairs  to  see  if  his  switching  engine 
is  where  he  left  it  and  comes  falling  down  stairs 
panting  with  terror  announcing  that  there  is  Some 
thing  in  the  guest-room.  At  that  moment  there  is 
a  sound  of  someone  leaving  the  house  by  the  back 
door.  Daddy  is  elected  by  popular  vote  to  go  up 
stairs  and  see  what  has  happened,  although  he  in- 
[170] 


WELCOME  HOME  — AND  SHUT  UP! 

sists  that  he  has  to  wait  down  stairs  as  the  man  with 
the  trunks  will  be  there  at  any  minute.  After  five 
minutes  of  cagey  manoeuvering  around  in  the  hall 
outside  the  guest-room  door,  he  returns  looking  for 
Junior,  saying  that  it  was  simply  a  pile  of  things 
left  on  the  bed  covered  with  a  sheet.  "  Aha-ha-ha- 
ha-ha!  " 

Then  comes  the  unpacking.  It  has  been  esti 
mated  that  in  the  trunks  of  returning  vacationists, 
taking  this  section  of  the  country  as  a  whole,  the 
following  articles  will  be  pulled  out  during  the  next 
few  weeks: 

Sneakers,  full  of  sand. 

Bathing  suits,  still  damp  from  the  "  one  last 
swim." 

Dead  tennis  balls. 

Last  month's  magazines,  bought  for  reading  in  the 
grove. 

Shells  and  pretty  stones  picked  up  on  the  beach 
for  decoration  purposes,  for  which  there  has  sud 
denly  become  no  use  at  all. 

Horse-shoe  crabs,  salvaged  by  children  who  re 
fused  to  leave  them  behind. 

Lace  scarfs  and  shawls,  bought  from  itinerant 
Armenians. 

Remnants  of  tubes  formerly  containing  sunburn 

[171] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

ointment,  half-filled  'bottles  of  citronella  and  white 
shoe-dressing. 

White  flannel  trousers,  ready  for  the  cleaners. 

Snap-shots,  showing  Ed  and  Mollie  on  the  beach 
in  their  bathing  suits. 

Snap-shots  which  show  nothing  at  all. 

Faded  flowers,  dance-cards  and  assorted  senti 
mental  objects,  calculated  to  bring  up  tender  memo 
ries  of  summer  evenings. 

Uncompleted  knit-sweaters. 

Then  begins  the  tour  of  the  neighborhood,  com 
paring  summer-vacation  experiences.  To  each  re 
turning  vacationist  it  seems  as  if  everyone  in  town 
must  be  interested  in  what  he  or  she  did  during  the 
summer.  They  stop  perfect  strangers  on  the  streets 
and  say:  "  Well,  a  week  ago  today  at  this  time  we 
were  all  walking  up  to  the  Post-Office  for  the  mail. 
Right  out  in  front  of  the  Post-Office  were  the  fish- 
houses  and  you  ought  to  have  seen  Billy  one  night 
leading  a  lobster  home  on  a  string.  That  was  the 
night  we  all  went  swimming  by  moon-light." 

"  Yeah?  "  says  the  stranger,  and  pushes  his  way 
past. 

Then  two  people  get  together  who  have  been  to 
different  places.  Neither  wants  to  hear  about  the 
other's  summer  —  and  neither  does.  Both  talk  at 
[172] 


WELCOME  HOME  — AND  SHUT  UP! 

once  and  pull  snap-shots  out  of  their  pockets. 

"  Here's  where  we  used  to  take  our  lunch  —  " 

"That's  nothing.  Steve  had  a  friend  up  the  lake 
who  had  a  launch  —  " 

" — and  everyday  there  was  something  doing  over 
at  the  Casino  —  " 

"  —  and  you  ought  to  have  seen  Miriam,  she  was 
a  sight  —  " 

Pretty  soon  they  come  to  blows  trying  to  make 
each  other  listen.  The  only  trouble  is  they  never 
quite  kill  each  other.  If  only  one  could  be  killed 
it  would  be  a  great  help. 

The  next  ban  on  immigration  should  be  on  re 
turning  vacationists.  Have  government  officials 
stationed  in  each  city  and  keep  everyone  out  who 
won't  give  a  bond  to  shut  up  and  go  right  to  work. 


[173] 


XXXIV 
ANIMAL  STORIES 


How  Georgie  Dog  Gets  the  Rubbers  on  the  Guest 
Room  Bed 

OLD  Mother  Nature  gathered  all  her  little 
pupils  about  her  for  the  daily  lesson  in  "  How 
the  Animals  Do  the  Things  They  Do."  Every  day 
Waldo  Lizard,  Edna  Elephant  and  Lawrence 
Walrus  came  to  Mother  Nature's  school,  and  there 
learned  all  about  the  useless  feats  performed  by 
their  brother  and  sister  animals. 

"Today,"  said  Mother  Nature,  "we  shall  find 
out  how  it  is  that  Georgie  Dog  manages  to  get  the 
muddy  rubbers  from  the  hall  closet,  up  the  stairs, 
and  onto  the  nice  white  bedspread  in  the  guest 
room.  You  must  be  sure  to  listen  carefully  and 
pay  strict  attention  to  what  Georgie  Dog  says. 
Only,  don't  take  too  much  of  it  seriously,  for 
Georgie  is  an  awful  liar." 

And,  sure  enough,  in  came  Georgie  Dog,  wagging 
his  entire  torso  in  a  paroxysm  of  camaradarie,  al- 

[174] 


ANIMAL  STORIES 

though  everyone  knew  that  he  had  no  use  for  Waldo 
Lizard. 

"Tell  us,  Georgie,"  said  Mother  Nature,  "how 
do  you -do  your  clever  work  of  rubber-dragging? 
We  would  like  so  much  to  know.  Wouldn't  we, 
children?  " 

"No,  Mother  Nature!  "  came  the  instant  re 
sponse  from  the  children. 

So  Georgie  Dog  began. 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you;  it's  this  way,"  he  said,  snap 
ping  at  a  fly.  "  You  have  to  be  very  niftig  about 
it.  First  of  all,  I  lie  by  the  door  of  the  hall  closet 
until  I  see  a  nice  pair  of  muddy  rubbers  kicked 
into  it." 

"  How  muddy  ought  they  to  be?  "  asked  Edna 
Elephant,  although  little  enough  use  she  would  have 
for  the  information. 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  asked  that  question,"  replied 
Georgie.  "  Personally,  I  like  to  have  mud  on 
them  about  the  consistency  of  gurry  —  that  is,  not 
too  wet  —  because  then  it  will  all  drip  off  on  the 
way  upstairs,  and  not  so  dry  that  it  scrapes  off  on 
the  carpet.  For  we  must  save  it  all  for  the  bed 
spread,  you  know. 

"  As  soon  as  the  rubbers  are  safely  in  the  hall 
closet,  I  make  a  great  deal  of  todo  about  going 
into  the  other  room,  in  order  to  give  the  impression 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

that  there  is  nothing  interesting  enough  in  the  hall 
to  keep  me  there.  A  good,  loud  yawn  helps  to 
disarm  any  suspicion  of  undue  excitement.  I  some- 
times'  even  chew  a  bit  of  fringe  on  the  sofa  and  take 
a  scolding  for  it  —  anything  to  draw  attention  from 
the  rubbers.  Then,  when  everyone  is  at  dinner,  I 
sneak  out  and  drag  them  forth." 

"  And  how  do  you  manage  to  take  them  both  at 
once?  "  piped  up  Lawrence  Walrus. 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  asked  that  question,"  said 
Georgie,  "  because  I  was  trying  to  avoid  it.  You 
can  never  guess  what  the  answer  is.  It  is  very 
difficult  to  take  two  at  a  time,  and  so  we  usually 
have  to  take  one  and  then  go  back  and  get  the 
other.  I  had  a  cousin  once  who  knew  a  grip  which 
could  be  worked  on  the  backs  of  overshoes,  by 
means  of  which  he  could  drag  two  at  a  time,  but 
he  was  an  exceptionally  fine  dragger.  He  once 
took  a  pair  of  rubber  boots  from  the  barn  into  the 
front  room,  where  a  wedding  was  taking  place,  and 
put  them  on  the  bride's  train.  Of  course,  not  one 
dog  in  a  million  could  hope  to  do  that. 

"  Once  upstairs,  it  is  quite  easy  getting  them  into 
the  guest  room,  unless  the  door  happens  to  be  shut. 
Then  what  do  you  think  I  do?  I  go  around 
through  the  bathroom  window  onto  the  roof,  and 
walk  around  to  the  sleeping  porch,  and  climb  down 


ANIMAL  STORIES 

into  the  guest  room  that  way.  It  is  a  lot  of  trouble, 
but  I  think  that  you  will  agree  with  me  that  the 
results  are  worth  it. 

"  Climbing  up  on  the  bed  with  the  rubbers  in 
my  mouth  is  difficult,  but  it  doesn't  make  any  dif 
ference  if  some  of  the  mud  comes  off  on  the  side 
of  the  bedspread.  In  fact,  it  all  helps  in  the  final 
effect.  I  usually  try  to  smear  them  around  when 
I  get  them  at  last  on  the  spread,  and  if  I  can  leave 
one  of  them  on  the  pillow,  I  feel  that  it's  a  pretty 
fine  little  old  world,  after  all.  This  done,  and  I 
am  off." 

And  Georgie  Dog  suddenly  disappeared  in  official 
pursuit  of  an  automobile  going  eighty-five  miles  an 
hour. 

"  So  now,"  said  Mother  Nature  to  her  little 
pupils,  "  we  have  heard  all  about  Georgie  Dog's 
work.  To-morrow  we  may  listen  to  Lillian  Mos 
quito  tell  how  she  makes  her  voice  carry  across  a 
room." 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

ANIMAL  STORIES 
II 

How  Lillian  Mosquito  Projects  Her  Voice 

ALL  the  children  came  crowding  around  Mother 
Nature  one  cold,  raw  afternoon  in  summer, 
crying  in  unison: 

"  Oh,  Mother  Nature,  you  promised  us  that  you 
would  tell  us  how  Lillian  Mosquito  projects  her 
voice!  You  promised  that  you  would  tell  us  how 
Lillian  Mosquito  projects  her  voice!  " 

"So  I  did!  So  I  did!  "  said  Mother  Nature, 
laying  down  an  oak,  the  leaves  of  which  she  was 
tipping  with  scarlet  for  'the  fall  trade.  "  And  so  I 
will!  So  I  will!  " 

At  which  Waldo  Lizard,  Edna  Elephant  and 
Lawrence  Walrus  jumped  with  imitation  joy,  for 
they  had  hoped  to  have  an  afternoon  off. 

Mother  Nature  led  them  across  the  fields  to  the 
piazza  of  a  clubhouse  on  which  there  was  an  ex 
posed  ankle  belonging  to  one  of  the  members. 
There,  as  she  had  expected,  'they  found  Lillian  Mos 
quito  having  tea. 

"Lillian,"  called  Mother  Nature,  "come  off  a 
minute.  I  have  some  little  friends  here  who  would 
like  to  know  how  it  is  that  you  manage  to  hum  in 
ri78] 


ANIMAL  STORIES 

such  a  manner  as  to  give  the  impression  of  being 
just  outside  the  ear  of  a  person  in  bed,  when 
actually  you  are  across  the  room." 

"  Will  you  kindly  repeat  the  question?  "  said 
Lillian  flying  over  to  the  railing. 

"  We  want  to  know,"  said  Mother  Nature,  "  how 
it  is  that  very  often,  when  you  have  been  fairly 
caught,  it  turns  out  that  you  have  escaped  without 
injury." 

"  I  would  prefer  to  answer  the  question  as  it 
was  first  put,"  said  Lillian. 

So  Waldo  Lizard,  Edna  Elephant  and  Lawrence 
Walrus,  seeing  that  there  was  no  way  out,  cried: 

"  Yes,  yes,  Lillian,  do  tell  us." 

"  First  of  all,  you  must  know,"  began  Lillian 
Mosquito,  "  that  my  chief  duty  is  to  annoy.  What 
ever  else  I  do,  however  many  bites  I  total  in  the 
course  of  the  evening,  I  do  not  consider  that  I  have 
'  made  good '  unless  I  have  caused  a  great  deal  of 
annoyance  while  doing  it.  A  bite,  quietly  executed 
and  not  discovered  by  the  victim  until  morning, 
does  me  no  good.  It  is  my  duty,  and  my  pleasure, 
to  play  with  him  before  biting,  as  you  have  often 
heard  a  cat  plays  with  a  mouse,  tormenting  him  with 
apprehension  and  making  him  struggle  to  defend 
himself.  ...  If  I  am  using  too  long  words  for  you, 
please  stop  me." 

[179] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

"Stop!  "  cried  Waldo  Lizard,  reaching  for  his 
hat,  with  the  idea  of  possibly  getting  to  the  ball 
park  by  the  fifth  inning. 

But  he  was  prevented  from  leaving  by  kindly  old 
Mother  Nature,  who  stepped  on  him  with  her  kindly 
old  heel,  and  Lillian  Mosquito  continued: 

"  I  must  therefore,  you  see,  be  able  to  use  my 
little  voice  with  great  skill.  Of  course,  the  first  thing 
to  do  is  to  make  my  victim  think  that  I  am  nearer 
to  him  than  I  really  am.  To  do  this,  I  sit  quite 
still,  let  us  say,  on  the  footboard  of  the  bed,  and, 
beginning  to  hum  in  a  very,  very  low  tone  of  voice, 
increase  the  volume  and  raise  the  pitch  gradually, 
thereby  giving  the  effect  of  approaching  the  pillow. 

"  The  man  in  bed  thinks  that  he  hears  me  coming 
toward  his  head,  and  I  can  often  see  him,  waiting 
with  clenched  teeth  until  he  thinks  that  I  am  near 
enough  to  swat.  Sometimes  I  strike  a  quick  little 
grace-note,  as  if  I  were  right  above  him  and  about 
to  make  a  landing.  It  is  great  fun  at  such  times 
to  see  him  suddenly  strike  himself  over  the  ear 
(they  always  think  that  I  am  right  at  their  ear), 
and  then  feel  carefully  between  his  finger  tips  to 
see  if  he  has  caught  me.  Then,  too,  there  is  always 
the  pleasure  of  thinking  that  perhaps  he  has  hurt 
himself  quite  badly  by  the  blow.  I  have  often 
known  victims  of  mine  to  deafen  themselves  per- 
[180] 


ANIMAL  STORIES 

manently  by  jarring  their  eardrums  in  their  wild  at 
tempts  to  catch  me." 

"  What  fun!  What  fun!  "  cried  Edna  Elephant. 
"  I  must  try  it  myself  just  as  soon  as  ever  I  get 
home." 

"  It  is  often  a  good  plan  to  make  believe  that  you 
have  been  caught  after  one  of  the  swats,"  continued 
Lillian  Mosquito,  "  and  to  keep  quiet  for  a  while. 
It  makes  him  cocky.  He  thinks  that  he  has  dem 
onstrated  the  superiority  of  man  over  the  rest  of 
the  animals.  Then  he  rolls  over  and  starts  to  sleep. 
This  is  the  time  to  begin  work  on  him  again.  After 
he  has  slapped  himself  all  over  the  face  and  head, 
and  after  he  has  put  on  the  light  and  made  a  search 
of  the  room  and  then  gone  back  to  bed  to  think  up 
some  new  words,  that  is  the  time  when  I  usually 
bring  the  climax  about. 

"  Gradually  approaching  him  from  the  right,  I 
hum  loudly  at  his  ear.  Then,  suddenly  becoming 
quiet,  I  fly  silently  and  quickly  around  to  his  neck. 
Just  as  he  hits  himself  on  the  ear,  I  bite  his  neck 
and  fly  away.  And,  voila,  there  you  are!  " 

"How  true  that  is!  "  said  Mother  Nature.  "Voila, 
there  we  are!  ...  Come,  children,  let  us  go  now, 
for  we  must  be  up  bright  and  early  to-morrow  to 
learn  how  Lois  Hen  scratches  up  the  beets  and  Swiss 
chard  in  the  gentlemen's  gardens." 
[181] 


XXXV 
THE   TARIFF   UNMASKED 

LET  us  get  this  tariff  thing  cleared  up,  once 
and  for  all.  An  explanation  is  due  the  Ameri 
can  people,  and  obviously  this  is  the  place  to  make 
it. 

Viewing  the  whole  thing,  schedule  by  schedule, 
we  find  it  indefensible.  In  Schedule  A  alone  the 
list  of  necessities  on  which  the  tax  is  to  be  raised 
includes  Persian  berries,  extract  of  nutgalls  and 
isinglass.  Take  isinglass  alone.  With  prices  shoot 
ing  up  in  this  market,  what  is  to  become  of  our 
picture  post-cards?  Where  once  for  a  nickel  you 
could  get  a  picture  of  the  Woolworth  Building 
ablaze  with  lights  with  the  sun  setting  and  the 
moon  rising  in  the  background,  under  the  proposed 
tariff  it  will  easily  set  you  back  fifteen  cents.  This 
is  all  very  well  for  the  rich  who  can  get  their  picture 
post-cards  at  wholesale,  but  how  are  the  poor  to  get 
their  art? 

The  only  justifiable  increase  in  this  schedule 
is  on  "blues,  in  pulp,  dried,  etc."  If  this 
will  serve  to  reduce  the  amount  of  "Those 
[182] 


THE  TARIFF  UNMASKED 

Lonesome-Onesome-Wonesome  Blues"  and  "  IVe 
Got  the  Left-All-Alone-in-The-Magazine-Reading- 
Room-of-the-Public-Library  Blues  "  with  which  our 
popular  song  market  has  been  flooded  for  the  past 
five  years,  we  could  almost  bring  ourselves  to  vote 
for  the  entire  tariff  bill  as  it  stands. 

Schedule  B 

Here  we  find  a  tremendous  increase  in  the  tax 
on  grindstones.  Householders  and  travelers  in  gen 
eral  do  not  appreciate  what  this  means.  It  means 
that,  next  year,  when  you  are  returning  from  Europe, 
you  will  have  to  pay  a  duty  on  those  Dutch  grind 
stones  that  you  always  bring  back  to  the  cousins,  a 
duty  which  will  make  the  importation  of  more 
than  three  prohibitive.  This  will  lead  to  an  orgy  of 
grindstone  smuggling,  making  it  necessary  for  hith 
erto  respectable  people  to  become  law-breakers  by 
concealing  grindstones  about  their  clothing  and  in 
the  trays  of  their  trunks.  Think  this  over. 

Schedule  C 

Right  at  the  start  of  this  list  we  find  charcoal 
bars  being  boosted.  Have  our  children  no  rights? 
What  is  a  train-ride  with  children  without  Hershey's 
charcoal  bars?  Or  gypsum?  What  more  pictur 
esque  on  a  ride  through  the  country-side  than  a 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

band  of  gypsum  encamped  by  the  road  with  their 
bright  colors  and  gay  tambourine  playing?  Are 
these  simple  folk  to  be  kept  out  of  this  country 
simply  because  a  Republican  tariff  insists  on  raising 
the  tax  on  gypsum? 

Schedule  D 

A  way  to  evade  the  injustice  of  this  schedule  is 
in  the  matter  of  marble  slabs.  "  Marble  slabs, 
rubbed  "  are  going  to  cost  more  to  import  than 
"marble  slabs,  unrubbed."  What  we  are  planning 
to  do  in  this  office  is  to  get  in  a  quantity  of  un 
rubbed  marble  slabs  and  then  rub  them  ourselves. 
A  coarse,  dry  towel  is  very  good  for  rubbing,  they 
say. 

Any  further  discussion  of  the  details  of  this  iniq 
uitous  tariff  would  only  enrage  us  to  a  point  of  in 
coherence.  Perhaps  a  short  list  of  some  of  the 
things  you  will  have  to  do  without  under  the  new 
arrangement  will  serve  to  enrage  you  also: 

Senegal  gum,  buchu  leaves,  lava  tips  for  burners, 
magic  lantern  strips,  spiegeleisen  nut  washers, 
butchers'  skewers  and  gun  wads. 

Now  write  to  your  congressman! 


[184] 


LITERARY    DEPARTMENT 


XXXVI 

"TAKE   ALONG   A   BOOK" 

THERE  seems  to  be  a  concerted  effort,  mani 
fest  in  the  "  Take  Along  a  Book  "  drive,  to 
induce  vacationists  to  slip  at  least  one  volume  into 
the  trunk  before  getting  Daddy  to  jump  on  it. 

This  is  a  fine  idea,  for  there  is  always  a  space  be 
tween  the  end  of  the  tennis-racquet  and  the  box  of 
soap  in  which  the  shoe-whitening  is  liable  to  tip 
over  unless  you  jam  a  book  in  with  it.  Any  book 
will  do. 

It  is  usually  a  book  that  you  have  been  meaning 
to  read  all  Spring,  one  that  you  have  got  so  used  to 
lying  about  to  people  who  have  asked  you  if  you 
have  read  it  that  you  have  almost  kidded  yourself 
into  believing  that  you  really  have  read  it.  You 
picture  yourself  out  in  the  hammock  or  down  on  the 
rocks,  with  a  pillow  under  your  head  and  pipe  or 
a  box  of  candy  near  at  hand,  just  devouring  page 
after  page  of  it.  The  only  thing  that  worries  you 
is  what  you  will  read  when  you  have  finished  that. 
"Oh,  well,"  you  think,  "there  will  probably  be 
some  books  in  the  town  library.  Maybe  I  can  get 

[187] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

Gibbon  there.  This  summer  will  be  a  good  time  to 
read  Gibbon  through." 

Your  trunk  doesn't  reach  the  cottage  until  four 
days  after  you  arrive,  owing  to  the  ferry-pilots' 
strike.  You  don't  get  it  unpacked  down  as  far  as 
the  layer  in  which  the  book  is  until  you  have  been 
there  a  week. 

Then  the  book  is  taken  out  and  put  on  the  table. 
In  transit  it  has  tried  to  eat  its  way  through  a  pair 
of  tramping-boots,  with  the  result  that  one  corner 
and  the  first  twenty  pages  have  become  dog-eared, 
but  that  won't  interfere  with  its  being  read. 

Several  other  things  do  interfere,  however.  The 
nice  weather,  for  instance.  You  start  out  from  your 
room  in  the  morning  and  somehow  or  other  never 
get  back  to  it  except  when  you  are  in  a  hurry  to  get 
ready  for  meals  or  for  bed.  You  try  to  read  in  bed 
one  night,  but  you  can't  seem  to  fix  your  sunburned 
shoulders  in  a  comfortable  position. 

You  take  the  book  down  to  luncheon  and  leave 
it  at  the  table.  And  you  don't  miss  it  for  three 
days.  When  you  find  it  again  it  has  large  blisters 
on  page  35  where  some  water  was  dropped  on  it. 

Then  Mrs.  Beatty,  who  lives  in  Montclair  in  the 
winter  time  (no  matter  where  you  go  for  the  sum 
mer,  you  always  meet  some  people  who  live  in  Mont 
clair  in  the  winter),  borrows  the  book,  as  she  has 
[188] 


"  TAKE  ALONG  A  BOOK  " 

heard  so  much  about  it.  Two  weeks  later  she  brings 
it  back,  and  explains  that  Prince  got  hold  of  it  one 
afternoon  and  chewed  just  a  little  of  the  back  off, 
but  says  that  she  doesn't  think  it  will  be  noticed 
when  the  book  is  in  the  bookcase. 

Back  to  the  table  in  the  bedroom  it  goes  and  is 
used  to  keep  unanswered  post-cards  in.  It  also  is 
convenient  as  a  backing  for  cards  which  you  your 
self  are  writing.  And  the  flyleaf  makes  an  excel 
lent  place  for  a  bridge-score  if  there  isn't  any  other 
paper  handy. 

When  it  comes  time  to  pack  up  for  home,  you 
shake  the  sand  from  among  the  leaves  and  save  out 
the  book  to  be  read  on  the  train.  And  you  leave  it 
in  the  automobile  that  takes  you  to  the  station. 

But  for  all  that,  "  take  along  a  book."  It  might 
rain  all  summer. 


XXXVII 

CONFESSIONS   OF   A   CHESS 
CHAMPION 

WITH  the  opening  of  the  baseball  season,  the 
sporting  urge  stirs  in  one's  blood  and  we 
turn  to  such  books  as  "  My  Chess  Career,"  by  J.  R. 
Capablanca.  Mr.  Capablanca,  I  gather  from  his 
text,  plays  chess  very  well.  Wherein  he  unquestion 
ably  has  something  on  me. 

His  book  is  a  combination  of  autobiography  and 
pictorial  examples  of  difficult  games  he  has  partici 
pated  in  and  won.  I  could  understand  the  autobi 
ographical  part  perfectly,  but  although  I  have  seen 
chess  diagrams  in  the  evening  papers  for  years,  I 
never  have  been  able  to  become  nervous  over  one. 
It  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  when  you  have 
seen  one  diagram  of  a  chessboard  you  have  seen 
them  all.  Therefore,  I  can  give  only  a  superficial 
review  of  the  technical  parts  of  Mr.  Capablanca's 
book. 

His  personal  reminiscences,  however,  are  full  of 
poignant  episodes.     For  instance,  let  us  take  an 
[190] 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A  CHESS  CHAMPION 

incident  which  occurred  in  his  early  boyhood  when 
he  found  out  what  sort  of  man  his  father  really 
was  —  a  sombre  event  in  the  life  of  any  boy,  much 
more  so  for  the  boy  Capablanca. 

"  I  was  born  in  Havana,  the  capital  of  the  Island 
of  Cuba,"  he  says,  "  the  igth  of  November,  1888. 
I  was  not  yet  five  years  old  when  by  accident  I 
came  into  my  father's  private  office  and  found  him 
playing  with  another  gentleman.  I  had  never  seen 
a  game  of  chess  before;  the  pieces  interested  me 
and  I  went  the  next  day  to  see  them  play  again. 
The  third  day,  as  I  looked  on,  my  father,  a  very 
poor  beginner,  moved  a  Knight  from  a  white  square 
to  another  white  square.  His  opponent,  apparently 
not  a  better  player,  did  not  notice  it.  My  father 
won,  and  I  proceeded  to  call  him  a  cheat  and  to 
laugh." 

Imagine  the  feelings  of  a  young  boy  entering  his 
father's  private  office  and  seeing  a  man  whom  he 
had  been  brought  up  to  love  and  to  revere  moving 
a  Knight  from  one  white  square  to  another.  It  is 
a  wonder  that  the  boy  had  the  courage  to  grow  up 
at  all  with  a  start  in  life  like  that. 

But  he  did  grow  up,  and  at  the  age  of  eight,  in 
spite  of  the  advice  of  doctors,  he  was  a  frequent 
visitor  at  the  Havana  Chess  Club.  As  he  says  in 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

describing  this  period  of  his  career,  "  Soon  Don 
Celso  Golmayo,  the  strongest  player  there,  was  un 
able  to  give  me  a  rook."  So  you  can  see  how  good 
he  was.  Don  Celso  couldn't  give  him  a  rook.  And 
if  Don  Celso  couldn't,  who  on  earth  could? 

In  his  introduction,  Mr.  Capablanca  (I  wish 
that  I  could  get  it  out  of  my  head  that  Mr.  Capa 
blanca  is  possibly  a  relation  of  the  Casabianca  boy 
who  did  the  right  thing  by  the  burning  deck.  They 
are,  of  course,  two  entirely  different  people)  —  in 
his  introduction,  Mr.  Capablanca  says: 

"  Conceit  I  consider  a  foolish  thing;  but  more 
foolish  still  is  that  false  modesty  that  vainly  at 
tempts  to  conceal  that  which  all  facts  tend  to  prove." 

It  is  this  straining  to  overcome  a  foolish,  false 
modesty  which  leads  him  to  say,  in  connection  with 
his  matches  with  members  of  the  Manhattan  Chess 
Club.  "  As  one  by  one  I  mowed  them  down  without 
the  loss  of  a  single  game,  my  superiority  became  ap 
parent."  Or,  in  speaking  of  his  "  endings  "  (a  term 
we  chess  experts  use  to  designate  the  last  part  of 
our  game),  to  murmur  modestly:  "The  endings 
I  already  played  very  well,  and  to  my  mind  had 
attained  the  high  standard  for  which  they  were  in 
the  future  to  be  well  known."  Mr.  Capablanca  will 
have  to  watch  that  false  modesty  of  his.  It  will  get 
him  into  trouble  some  day. 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A  CHESS  CHAMPION 

Although  this  column  makes  no  pretense  of  carry 
ing  sporting  news,  it  seems  only  right  to  print  a 
part  of  the  running  story  of  the  big  game  between 
Capablancaand  Dr.  O.  S.  Bernstein  in  the  San  Sebas 
tian  tournament  of  1911.  Capablanca  wore  the 
white,  while  Dr.  Bernstein  upheld  the  honor  of  the 
black. 

The  tense  moment  of  the  game  had  been  reached. 
Capablanca  has  the  ball  on  Dr.  Bernstein's  3-yard 
line  on  the  second  down,  with  a  minute  and  a  half 
to  play.  The  stands  are  wild.  Cries  of  "  Hold 
'em,  Bernstein!  "  and  "Touchdown,  Capablanca!  " 
ring  out  on  the  frosty  November  air. 

Brave  voices  are  singing  the  fighting  song  en 
titled  "  Capablanca's  Day  "  which  runs  as  follows: 

"  Oh,  sweep,  sweep  across  the  board, 
With  your  castles,  queens,  and  pawns; 
We  are  with  you,  all  Havana's  horde, 
Till  the  sun  of  victory  dawns; 
Then  it's  fight,  fight,  FIGHT! 
To  your  last  white  knight, 
For  the  truth  must  win  alway, 
And  our  hearts  beat  true 
Old  "  J.  R."  for  you 
On  Capa-blanca's  Day." 

[193] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

"Up  to  this  point  the  game  had  proceeded  along 
the  lines  generally  recommended  by  the  masters," 
writes  Capablanca.  "  The  last  move,  however,  is 
a  slight  deviation  from  the  regular  course,  which 
brings  this  Knight  back  to  B  in  order  to  leave  open 
the  diagonal  for  the  Q,  and  besides  is  more  in  ac 
cordance  with  the  defensive  nature  of  the  game. 
Much  more  could  be  said  as  to  the  reasons  that 
make  Kt  -  B  the  preferred  move  of  most  masters. 
...  Of  course,  lest  there  be  some  misapprehension, 
let  me  state  that  the  move  Kt  -  B  is  made  in  con 
junction  with  K  R  -  K,  which  comes  first." 

It  is  lucky  that  Mr.  Casabianca  made  that  ex 
planation,  for  I  was  being  seized  with  just  that 
misapprehension  which  he  feared.  (Mr.  Capa 
blanca,  I  mean.) 

Below  Is  the  box-score  by  innings: 

1.  P-K4.  P-K4. 

2.  Kt-QB3.  Kt-QB3. 

3.  P-B4.  PxP. 

4.  Kt-B3.  P-KKt4. 

(Game  called  on  account  of  darkness.) 


[194] 


XXXVIII 
"RIP   VAN   WINKLE" 

AFTER  all,  there  is  nothing  like  a  good  folk- 
opera  for  wholesome  fun,  and  the  boy  who 
can  turn  out  a  rollicking  folk-opera  for  old  and 
young  is  Percy  MacKaye.  His  latest  is  a  riot  from 
start  to  finish.  You  can  buy  it  in  book  form,  pub 
lished  by  Knopf.  Just  ask  for  "  Rip  Van  Winkle  " 
and  spend  the  evening  falling  out  of  your  chair. 
(You  wake  up  just  as  soon  as  you  fall  and  are  all 
ready  again  for  a  fresh  start.) 

Of  course  it  is  a  little  rough  in  spots,  but  you 
know  what  Percy  MacKaye  is  when  he  gets  loose 
on  a  folk-opera.  It  is  good,  clean  Rabelaisian  fun, 
such  as  was  in  "  Washington,  the  Man  Who  Made 
Us."  I  always  felt  that  it  was  very  prudish  of  the 
police  to  stop  that  play  just  as  it  was  commencing 
its  run.  Or  maybe  it  wasn't  the  police  that  stopped 
it.  Something  did,  I  remember. 

But  "  Rip  Van  Winkle  "  has  much  more  zip  to  it 
than  "  Washington  "  had.  In  the  first  place,  the 
lyrics  are  better.  They  have  more  of  a  lilt  to  them 
than  the  lines  of  the  earlier  work  had.  Here  is  the 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

song  hit  of  the  first  act,  sung  by  the  Goose  Girl. 
Try  this  over  on  your  piano: 

Kaater skill,  Kaater skill, 
Cloud  on  the  Kaater  skill! 
Will  it  be  fair,  or  lower? 
Silver  rings 
On  my  pond  I  see; 
And  my  gander  he 
Shook  both  his  white  wings 
Like  a  sunshine  shower. 

I  venture  to  say  that  Irving  Berlin  himself 
couldn't  have  done  anything  catchier  than  that  by 
way  of  a  lyric.  Or  this  little  snatch  of  a  refrain 
sung  by  the  old  women  of  the  town: 

Nay,  nay,  nay! 

A  sunshine  shower 

Won't  last  a  half  an  hour. 

The  trouble  with  most  lyrics  is  that  they  are  writ 
ten  by  song- writers  who  have  had  no  education.  Mr. 
MacKaye's  college  training  shows  itself  in  every 
line  of  the  opera.  There  is  a  sublety  of  rhyme- 
scheme,  a  delicacy  of  metre,  and,  above  all,  an 
originality  of  thought  and  expression  which  prom 
ises  much  for  the  school  of  university-bred  lyricists- 

[196] 


"  RIP  VAN  WINKLE  " 

Here,  for  instance,  is  a  lyric  which  Joe  McCarthy 
could  never  have  written: 

Up  spoke  Nancy,  spanking  Nancy, 

Says,  "  My  feet  are  far  too  dancy,  Dancy  0! 

So  foot-on-the-grass, 

Foot-on-the- grass, 

Foot-on-the-grass  is  my  fancy,  O!  " 

Of  course  this  is  a  folk-opera.  And  you  can  get 
away  with  a  great  deal  of  that  "  dancy-o  "  stuff 
when  you  call  it  a  folk-opera.  You  can  throw  it 
all  back  on  the  old  folk  at  home  and  they  can't  say 
a  word. 

But  even  the  local  wits  of  Rip  Van  Winkle's  time 
would  have  repudiated  the  comedy  lines  which  Mr. 
MacKaye  gives  Rip  to  say  in  which  "  Katy-did  " 
and  "  Katy-didn't "  figure  prominently  as  the  nub, 
followed,  before  you  have  time  to  stop  laughing,  by 
one  about  "  whip  poor  Will  "  (whippoorwill  —  get 
it?).  If  "  Rip  Van  Winkle  "  is  ever  produced  again, 
Ed  Wynn  should  be  cast  as  Rip.  He  would  eat  that 
line  alive. 

Ed  Wynn,  by  the  way,  might  do  wonders  by  the 
opera  if  he  could  get  the  rights  to  produce  it  in  his 
own  way.  Let  Mr.  MacKaye's  name  stay  on  the 
programme,  but  give  Ed  Wynn  the  white  card  to  do 

[197] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

as  he  might  see  fit  with  the  book.  For  instance, 
one  of  Mr.  MacKaye's  characters  is  named  "  Dirck 
Spuytenduyvil."  Let  him  stand  as  he  is,  but  give 
him  two  cousins,  "  Mynheer  Yonkers  "  and  "  Jan 
One  Hundred  and  Eighty-third  Street."  The  three 
of  them  could  do  a  comedy  tumbling  act.  There  is 
practically  no  end  to  the  features  that  could  be  in 
troduced  to  tone  the  thing  up. 

The  basic  idea  of  "  Rip  Van  Winkle  "  would  lend 
itself  admirably  to  Broadway  treatment,  for  Mr. 
MacKaye  has  taken  liberties,  with  the  legend  and 
introduced  the  topical  idea  of  a  Magic  Flask,  con 
taining  home-made  hootch.  Hendrick  Hudson,  the 
Captain  of  the  Catskill  Bowling  Team,  is  the  lucky 
possessor  of  the  doctor's  prescription  and  formula, 
and  it  is  in  order  to  take  a  trial  spin  with  the  brew 
that  Rip  first  goes  up  to  the  mountain.  Here  are 
Hendrick 's  very  words  of  invitation: 

You'll  be  right  welcome.    I  will  let  you  taste 

A  wonder  drink  we  brew  aboard  the  Half  Moon. 

Whoever  drinks  the  Magic  Flask  thereof 

Forgets  all  lapse  of  time 

And  wanders  ever  in  the  fairy  season 

Of  youth  and  spring. 

Come  join  me  in  the  mountains 

At  mid  of  night 

And  there  I  promise  you  the  Magic  Flask. 


"  RIP  VAN  WINKLE  " 

And  so  at  mid  of  night  Rip  fell  for  the  prom 
ise  of  wandering  "  in  the  fairy  season,"  as  so  many 
have  done  at  the  invitation  of  a  man  who  has  "  made 
a  little  something  at  home  which  you  couldn't  tell 
from  the  real  stuff."  Rip  got  out  of  it  easily.  He 
simply  went  to  sleep  for  twenty  years.  You  ought 
to  see  a  man  I  know. 

There  is  a  note  in  the  front  of  the  volume  saying 
that  no  public  reading  of  "  Rip  Van  Winkle  "  may 
be  given  without  first  getting  the  author's  permis 
sion.  It  ought  to  be  made  much  more  difficult  to 
do  than  that. 


XXXIX 

LITERARY   LOST   AND    FOUND 
DEPARTMENT 

With  Scant  Apology  to  the  Book  Section  of  the 
New  York  Times. 

"OLD  BLACK  TILLIE" 

HG.L.  —  When  I  was  a  little  girl,  my  nurse 
•  used  to  recite  a  poem  something  like  the  fol 
lowing  (as  near  as  I  can  remember).    I  wonder  if 
anyone  can  give  me  the  missing  lines? 

"  Old  Black  Tillie  lived  in  the  dell, 

Heigh-ho  with  a  rum-tum-tum! 

Something,  something,  something  like  a  lot  of  hellt 

Heigh-ho  with  a  rum-tum-tum! 

She  wasn't  very  something  and  she  wasn't  very 

fat 
But  —  " 

"  VICTOR  HUGO'S  DEATH  " 

M.K.C.—  Is  it  true  that  Victor  Hugo  did  not 
die  but  is  still  living  in  a  little  shack  in  Colorado? 
[200] 


LITERARY   LOST   AND    FOUND 

"I'M  SORRY  THAT  I  SPELT  THE  WORD  " 

J.R.A.  —  Can  anyone  help  me  out  by  furnishing 
the  last  three  words  to  the  following  stanza  which 
I  learned  in  school  and  of  which  I  have  forgotten 
the  last  three  words,  thereby  driving  myself  crazy? 

" '  I'm  sorry  that  I  spelt  the  word, 
I  hate  to  go  above  you, 
Because  — '  the  brown  eyes  lower  jell, 
'  Because,  you  see, .'" 

"  GOD'S  IN  His  HEAVEN  " 

J.A.E.  —  Where  did  Mark  Twain  write  the  fol 
lowing? 

"God's  in  his  heaven: 
All's  right  with  the  world. J> 

"  SHE  DWELT  BESIDE  " 

N.K.Y.  —  Can  someone  locate  this  for  me  and 
tell  the  author? 

"  She  dwelt  among  untrodden  ways, 
Beside  the  springs  of  Dove, 
To  me  she  gave  sweet  Charity, 
But  greater  far  is  Love." 

[201] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

"  THE  GOLDEN  WEDDING  " 

K.L.F.  —  Who  wrote  the  following  and  what 
does  it  mean? 

"  Oh,  de  golden  wedding, 
Oh,  de  golden  wedding, 
Oh,  de  golden  wedding, 
De  golden,  golden  wedding!  " 

ANSWERS 
"  WHEN  GRANDMA  WAS  A  GIRL  " 

LUTHER  F.  NEAM,  Flushing,  L.  I.  —  The  poem 
asked  for  by  "  E.J.K."  was  recited  at  a  Free  Soil  riot 
in  Ashburg,  Kansas,  in  July,  1850.  It  was  entitled, 
"  And  That's  the  Way  They  Did  It  When  Grandma 
Was  a  Girl,"  and  was  written  by  Bishop  Leander  B. 
Rizzard.  The  last  line  runs: 

"And  that's  they  way  they  did  it,  when  Grandma 
was  a  girl." 

Others  who  answered  this  query  were:  Lillian  W. 
East,  of  Albany;  Martin  B.  Forsch,  New  York  City, 
and  Henry  Cabot  Lodge,  Nahant. 

[202] 


LITERARY   LOST    AND    FOUND 

"  LET  Us  THEN  BE  UP  AND  DOING  " 

ROGER  F.  NILKETTE,  Presto,  N.J.  —  Replying  to 
the  query  in  your  last  issue  concerning  the  origin  of 
the  lines: 

"  Let  us  then  be  up  and  doing, 
With  a  heart  for  any  fate. 
Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 
Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait" 

I  remember  hearing  these  lines  read  at  a  gather 
ing  in  the  Second  Baptist  Church  of  Presto,  N.  J., 
when  I  was  a  young  man,  by  the  Reverend  Harley 
N.  Ankle.  It  was  said  at  the  time  among  his  parish 
ioners  that  he  himself  wrote  them  and  on  being 
questioned  on  the  matter  he  did  not  deny  it,  simply 
smiling  and  saying,  "  I'm  glad  if  you  liked  them." 
They  were  henceforth  known  in  Presto  as  "  Dr. 
Ankle's  verse  "  and  were  set  to  music  and  sung  at 
his  funeral. 

"  THE  DECEMBER  BRIDE,  OR  OLD  ROBIN  " 

CHARLES  B.  RENNIT,  Boston,  N.  H.  —  The 
whole  poem  wanted  by  "  H.J.O."  is  as  follows,  and 
appeared  in  Hosteller's  Annual  in  1843. 

[203] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 


"  'Twas  in  the  bleak  December  that  I  took  her  for 

my  bride; 
How  well  do  I  remember  how  she  fluttered  by  my 

side; 
My  Nellie  dear,  it  was  not  long  before  you  up  and 

died, 
And  they  buried  her  at  eight-thirty  in  the  morning. 


"  Oh,  do  not  tell  me  of  the  charms  of  maidens  far 

and  near, 
Their  charming  ways  and  manners  I  do  not  care  to 

hear, 

For  Lucy  dear  was  to  me  so  very,  very  dear, 
And  they  buried  her  at  eight-thirty  in  the  morning. 

3 

"  Then  it's  merrily,  merrily,  merrily,  whoa! 
To  the  old  gray  church  they  come  and  go, 
Some  to  be  married  and  some  to  be  buried, 
And  old  Robin  has  gone  for  the  mail." 

"THE  OLD  KING'S  JOKE" 

F.  J.  BRUFF,  Hammick,  Conn.  —  In  a  recent  issue 
of  your  paper,  Lillian  F.  Grothman  asked  for  the 
[204] 


LITERARY   LOST   AND    FOUND 

remainder  of  a  poem  which  began:    "  The  King  of 
Sweden  made  a  joke,  ha,  ha! " 

I  can  furnish  all  of  this  poem,  having  written  it 
myself,  for  which  I  was  expelled  from  St.  Domino's 
School  in  1895.  If  Miss  Grothman  will  meet  me  in 
the  green  room  at  the  Biltmore  for  tea  on  Wednes 
day  next  at  4:30,  she  will  be  supplied  with  the 
missing  words. 


[205] 


XL 
"  DARKWATER  " 

WE  have  so  many,  many  problems  in  America. 
Books  are  constantly  being  written  offering 
solutions  for  them,  but  still  they  persist. 

There  are  volumes  on  auction  bridge,  family 
budgets  and  mind-training.  A  great  many  people 
have  ideas  on  what  should  be  done  to  relieve  the 
country  of  certain  undesirable  persons  who  have 
displayed  a  lack  of  sympathy  with  American  insti 
tutions.  (As  if  American  institutions  needed  sym 
pathy!  )  And  some  of  the  more  generous-minded 
among  us  are  writing  books  showing  our  duty  to 
the  struggling  young  nationalities  of  Europe.  It 
is  bewildering  to  be  confronted  by  all  these  prob 
lems,  each  demanding  intelligent  solution. 

Little  wonder,  then,  that  we  have  no  time  for 
writing  books  on  the  one  problem  which  is  exclu 
sively  our  own.  With  so  many  wrongs  in  the  world 
to  be  righted,  who  can  blame  us  for  overlooking 
the  one  tragic  wrong  which  lies  at  our  door?  With 
so  many  heathen  to  whom  the  word  of  God  must  be 
[206] 


"  DARKWATER  " 

brought  and  so  many  wild  revolutionists  in  whom 
must  be  instilled  a  respect  for  law  and  order,  is  it 
strange  that  we  should  ourselves  sometimes  lump 
the  word  of  God  and  the  principles  of  law  and  order 
together  under  the  head  of  "  sentimentality  "  and 
shrug  our  shoulders?  Justice  in  the  abstract  is  our 
aim  —  any  American  will  tell  you  that  —  so  why 
haggle  over  details  and  insist  on  justice  for  the 
negro? 

But  W.  E.  B.  Du  Bois  does  insist  on  justice  for 
the  negro,  and  in  his  book  "  Darkwater  "  (Har- 
court,  Brace  &  Co.)  his  voice  rings  out  in  a  bitter 
warning  through  the  complacent  quiet  which  usually 
reigns  around  this  problem  of  America.  Mr.  Du 
Bois  seems  to  forget  that  we  have  the  affairs  of  a 
great  many  people  to  attend  to  and  persists  in  call 
ing  our  attention  to  this  affair  of  our  own.  And 
what  is  worse,  in  the  minds  of  all  well-bred  persons 
he  does  not  do  it  at  all  politely.  He  seems  to  be 
quite  distressed  about  something. 

Maybe  it  is  because  he  finds  himself,  a  man  of 
superior  mind  and  of  sensitive  spirit  who  is  a  grad 
uate  of  Harvard,  a  professor  and  a  sincere  worker 
for  the  betterment  of  mankind,  relegated  to  an  in 
ferior  order  by  many  men  and  women  who  are 
obviously  his  inferiors,  simply  because  he  happens 

[207] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

to  differ  from  them  in  the  color  of  his  skin.  Maybe 
it  is  because  he  sees  the  people  of  his  own  race  who 
have  not  had  his  advantages  (if  a  negro  may  ever 
be  said  to  have  received  an  advantage)  being 
crowded  into  an  ignominious  spiritual  serfdom 
equally  as  bad  as  the  physical  serfdom  from 
which  they  were  so  recently  freed.  Maybe  it  is 
because  of  these  things  that  Mr.  Du  Bois  seems 
overwrought. 

Or  perhaps  it  is  because  he  reads  each  day  of 
how  jealous  we  are,  as  a  Nation,  of  the  sanctity  of 
our  Constitution,  how  we  revere  it  and  draw  a  flash 
ing  sword  against  its  detractors,  and  then  sees  this 
very  Constitution  being  flouted  as  a  matter  of  course 
in  those  districts  where  the  amendment  giving  the 
negroes  a  right  to  vote  is  popularly  considered  one 
of  the  five  funniest  jokes  in  the  world. 

Perhaps  he  hears  candidates  for  office  insisting  on 
a  reign  of  law  or  a  plea  for  order  above  all  things, 
by  some  sentimentalist  or  other,  or  public  speakers 
advising  those  who  have  not  respect  for  American 
institutions  to  go  back  whence  they  came,  and  then 
sees  whole  sections  of  the  country  violating  every 
principle  of  law  and  order  and  mocking  American 
institutions  for  the  sake  of  teaching  a  "nigger" 
his  place. 

[208] 


"  DARKWATER  » 

Perhaps  during  the  war  he  heard  of  the  bloody 
crimes  of  our  enemies,  and  saw  preachers  and  edi 
tors  and  statesmen  stand  aghast  at  the  barbaric 
atrocities  which  won  for  the  German  the  name  of 
Hun,  and  then  looked  toward  his  own  people  and 
saw  them  being  burned,  disembowelled  and  tortured 
with  a  civic  unanimity  and  tacit  legal  sanction  which 
made  the  word  Hun  sound  weak. 

Perhaps  he  has  heard  it  boasted  that  in  America 
every  man  who  is  honest,  industrious  and  intelligent 
has  a  good  chance  to  win  out,  and  has  seen  honest, 
industrious  and  intelligent  men  whose  skins  are  black 
stopped  short  by  a  wall  so  high  and  so  thick  that 
all  they  can  do,  on  having  reached  that  far,  is  to 
bow  their  heads  and  go  slowly  back. 

Any  one  of  these  reasons  should  have  been  suffi 
cient  for  having  written  "  Darkwater." 

It  is  unfortunate  that  Mr.  Du  Bois  should  have 
raised  this  question  of  our  own  responsibility  just 
at  this  time  when  we  were  showing  off  so  nicely.  It 
may  remind  some  one  that  instead  of  taking  over 
a  protectorate  of  Armenia  we  might  better  take  over 
a  protectorate  of  the  State  of  Georgia,  which  yearly 
leads  the  proud  list  of  lynchers.  But  then,  there 
will  not  be  enough  people  who  see  Mr.  Du  Bois's 
book  to  cause  any  great  national  movement,  so  we 
are  quite  sure,  for  the  time  being,  of  being  able  to 
[209] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

devote  our  energies  to  the  solution  of  our  other 
problems. 

Don't  forget,  therefore,  to  write  your  Congress 
man  about  a  universal  daylight-saving  bill,  and  give 
a  little  thought,  if  you  can,  to  the  question  of  the 
vehicular  tunnel. 


[210] 


XLI 
THE  NEW  TIME-TABLE 

THE  new  time-table  of  the  New  York  Central 
Railroad  (New  York  Central  Railroad,  Har 
lem  Division.  Form  113.  Corrected  to  March  28, 
1922)  is  an  attractive  folder,  done  in  black  and 
white,  for  the  suburban  trade.  It  slips  neatly  into 
the  pocket,  where  it  easily  becomes  lost  among 
letters  and  bills,  appearing  again  only  when  you 
have  procured  another. 

So  much  for  its  physical  features.  Of  the  text 
matter  it  is  difficult  to  write  without  passion.  No 
more  disheartening  work  has  been  put  on  the  market 
this  season. 

In  an  attempt  to  evade  the  Daylight-Saving  Law 
the  New  York  Central  has  kept  its  clocks  at  what 
is  called  "  Eastern  Standard  Time,"  meaning  that 
it  is  standard  on  East  42 d  Street  between  Vander- 
bilt  and  Lexington  Avenues.  Practically  everywhere 
else  in  New  York  the  clocks  are  an  hour  ahead. 

It  is  this  "  Eastern  Standard  Time  "  that  gives 
the  time-table  its  distinctive  flavor.  Each  train  has 
been  demoted  one  hour,  and  then,  for  fear  that  it 

[211] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

would  be  too  easy  to  understand  this,  an  extra  three 
or  four  minutes  have  been  thrown  in  or  taken  out, 
just  so  that  no  mistake  can  help  being  made. 

In  order  to  read  the  new  time-table  understand- 
ingly  the  following  procedure  is  now  necessary: 

Take  a  room  in  some  quiet  family  hotel  where 
the  noise  from  the  street  is  reduced  to  minimum. 
Place  the  time-table  on  the  writing-desk  and  sit  in 
front  of  it,  holding  a  pencil  in  the  right  hand  and 
a  watch  (Eastern  Christian  Time)  in  the  left.  Then 
decide  on  the  time  you  think  you  would  like  to 
reach  home.  Let  us  say  that  you  usually  have 
dinner  at  7.  You  would,  if  you  could  do  just  what 
you  wanted,  reach  Valhalla  at  6:30.  Very  well.  It 
takes  about  an  hour  from  the  Grand  Central  Termi 
nal  to  Valhalla.  How  about  a  train  leaving  around 
5:30? 

Look  at  the  time-table  for  a  train  which  leaves 
about  2 145  (Eastern  Standard  Time).  Write  down, 
"2:45  "  °n  a  piece  of  paper.  Add  150.  Subtract 
the  number  of  stations  that  Valhalla  is  above  White 
Plains.  Sharpen  your  pencil  and  bind  up  your  cut 
finger  and  subtract  the  number  you  first  thought  of, 
and  the  result  will  show  the  number  of  Presidents 
of  the  United  States  who  have  been  assassinated 
while  in  office.  Then  go  over  to  the  Grand  Central 

[212] 


'Listen,  Ed!    This  is  how  it  goes!" 


THE  NEW  TIME-TABLE 

Terminal  and  ask  one  of  the  information  clerks 
what  you  want  to  know. 

They  will  be  glad  to  see  you,  for  during  the  last 
three  days  they  have  been  actually  hungering  for 
the  sight  of  a  human  face.  Sometimes  it  has  seemed 
to  them  that  the  silence  and  loneliness  there  behind 
the  information  counter  would  drive  them  mad.  If 
some  one  —  any  one  —  would  only  come  and  speak 
to  them!  That  is  why  one  of  them  is  over  in  the 
corner  chewing  up  time-tables  into  small  balls  and 
playing  marbles  with  them.  He  has  gone  mad  from 
loneliness.  The  other  clerk,  the  one  who  is  looking 
at  the  tip  of  his  nose  and  mumbling  Lincoln's  Gettys 
burg  Address,  has  only  a  few  more  minutes  before 
he  too  succumbs. 

And  that  low,  rumbling  sound,  what  is  that?  It 
comes  from  the  crowd  of  commuters  standing  in 
front  of  the  gate  of  what  used  to  be  the  5:56.  Let 
us  draw  near  and  hear  what  the}''  are  discussing. 
Why,  it  is  the  new  time-table,  of  all  things! 

"  Listen,  Ed.  This  is  how  it  goes.  This  train 
that  goes  at  4:25  according  to  this  time-table  is 
really  the  old  5:20.  See?  What  you  do  is  add 
an  hour  " 

"  Aw,  what  kind  of  talk  is  that?  Add  an  hour 
to  your  grandmother!  You  subtract  an  hour  from 

[213] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

the  time  as  given  here.  This  is  Eastern  Standard 
Time.  See,  it  says  right  here:  '  The  time  shown 
in  this  folder  is  Eastern  Standard  Time,  one  hour 
slower  than  Daylight-Saving  Time.'  See?  One 
hour  slower.  You  subtract." 

"Here,  you  guys  are  both  way  off.  I  just  asked 
one  of  the  trainmen.  The  5:56  has  gone.  It  went 
at  4:20.  The  next  train  that  we  get  is  the  6:20 
which  goes  at  5:19.  Look,  see  here.  It  says  5:19 
on  the  time-table  but  that  means  that  by  your  watch 
it  is  6:19" 

"By  my  watch  it  is  not  6:19.  My  watch  I 
set  by  the  clock  in  the  station  this  morning  when  I 


came  in  " 


"  Well,  the  clock  in  the  station  is  wrong.  That 
is,  the  clock  in  the  station  is  an  hour  ahead  of  all 
the  other  clocks." 

"  An  hour  ahead?    An  hour  behind,  you  mean." 

"  The  clock  in  the  station  is  an  hour  ahead.  I 
know  what  I'm  talking  about." 

"Now  listen,  Jo.  Didn't  you  see  in  the  paper 
Monday  morning  " 

"  Yaas,  I  saw  in  the  paper  Monday  morning,  and 
it  said  that  " 

"Look,  Gus.  By  my  watch  —  look,  Gus  — 
listen,  Gus  —  by  my  watch  " 

[214] 


THE  NEW  TIME-TABLE 

"  Aw,  you  and  your  watch!  What's  that  got  to  do 
with  it?  " 

"Now  looka  here.  On  this  time-table  it 
says  " 

"Lissen,  Eddie" 

Whatever  else  its  publishers  may  say  about  it, 
the  new  New  York  Central  time-table  bids  fair  to  be 
the  most-talked-of  publication  of  the  season. 


XLII 
MR.    BOK'S   AMERICANIZATION 

IF  ever  you  should  feel  important  enough  to  write 
an  autobiography  to  give  to  the  world,  and  dis 
like  to  say  all  the  nice  things  about  yourself  that  you 
feel  really  ought  to  be  said,  just  write  it  in  the  third 
person.  Edward  Bok  has  done  this  in  "  The  Ameri 
canization  of  Edward  Bok  "  and  the  effect  is  quite 
touching  in  its  modesty. 

In  "  An  Explanation  "  at  the  beginning  of  the 
book  Mr.  Bok  disclaims  any  credit  for  the  winning 
ways  and  remarkable  success  of  his  hero,  Edward 
Bok.  Edward  Bok,  the  little  Dutch  boy  who  landed 
in  America  in  1870  and  later  became  the  editor  of 
the  greatest  women's  advertising  medium  in  the 
country,  is  an  entirely  different  person  from  the 
Edward  Bok  who  is  telling  the  story.  You  under 
stand  this  to  begin  with.  Otherwise  you  may  mis 
judge  the  author. 

"  I  have  again  and  again  found  myself,"  writes 

Mr.  Bok,  "  watching  with  intense  amusement  and 

interest  'the  Edward  Bok  of  this  book  at  work.  .  .  . 

His  tastes,  his  outlook,  his  manner  of  looking  at 

[216] 


MR.  BOK'S  AMERICANIZATION 

things  were  totally  at  variance  with  my  own.  .  .  . 
He  has  had  and  has  been  a  personality  apart  from 
my  private  self." 

The  only  connection  between  Edward  Bok  the 
editor  and  Edward  Bok  the  autobiographer  seems 
to  be  that  Editor  Bok  allows  Author  Bok  to  have 
a  checking  account  in  his  bank  under  their  common 
name. 

Thus  completely  detached  from  his  hero,  Mr.  Bok 
proceeds  and  is  able  to  narrate  on  page  3,  in  the 
manner  of  Horatio  Alger,  how  young  Edward, 
taunted  by  his  Brooklyn  schoolmates,  gave  a  sound 
thrashing  to  the  ringleader,  after  which  he  found 
himself  "  looking  into  the  eyes  of  a  crowd  of  very 
respectful  boys  and  giggling  girls,  who  readily  made 
a  passageway  for  his  brother  and  himself  when  they 
indicated  a  desire  to  leave  the  school-yard  and  go 
home." 

He  can  also,  without  seeming  in  the  least  conceited, 
tell  how,  through  his  clear-sighted  firmness  in  refus 
ing  to  write  in  the  Spencerian  manner  prescribed  in 
school,  he  succeeded  in  bringing  the  Principal  and 
the  whole  Board  of  Education  to  their  senses,  result 
ing  in  a  complete  reversal  of  the  public-school  policy 
in  the  matter  of  handwriting  instruction. 

The  Horatio  Alger  note  is  dominant  throughout 
the  story  of  young  Edward's  boyhood.  His  cheer- 

[217] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

fulness  and  business  sagacity  so  impressed  everyone 
with  whom  he  came  in  contact  that  he  was  soon 
outdistancing  all  the  other  boys  in  the  process  of 
self-advancement.  And  no  one  is  more  smilingly 
tolerant  of  the  irresistible  progress  of  young  Edward 
Bok  in  making  friends  and  money  than  Edward  Bok 
the  impersonal  author  of  the  book.  He  just  loves 
to  see  the  young  boy  get  ahead. 

It  will  perhaps  aid  in  getting  an  idea  of  the  person 
ality  and  confident  presence  of  the  Boy  Bok  to  state 
that  he  was  a  feverish  collector  of  autographs.  When 
ever  any  famous  personage  came  to  town  the  young 
man  would  find  out  at  what  hotel  he  was  staying  and 
would  proceed  to  hound  him  until  he  had  got  him 
to  write  his  name,  with  some  appropriate  sentiment, 
in  a  little  book.  In  advertising  the  present  volume 
the  publishers  give  a  list  of  names  of  historical  char 
acters  who  feature  in  Mr.  Bok's  reminiscences  — 
Gens.  Grant  and  Garfield,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes, 
Longfellow,  Emerson  and  dozens  of  others.  And  so 
they  do  figure  in  the  book,  but  as  victims  of  the 
young  Dutch  boy's  passion  for  autographs.  Still, 
perhaps,  they  did  not  mind,  for  the  author  gives  us  to 
understand  that  they  were  all  so  charmed  with  the 
prepossessing  manner  and  intelligent  bearing  of  the 
young  autograph  hound  that  they  not  only  were  con- 


MR.  BOK'S  AMERICANIZATION 

tinually  asking  him  to  dinner  (he  usually  timed  his 
visit  so  as  to  catch  them  just  as  they  were  entering 
the  dining-room)  but  insisted  on  giving  him  letters 
of  introduction  to  their  friends. 

Only  Mrs.  Abraham  Lincoln  and  Ralph  Waldo  Em 
erson  neglected  to  register  extreme  pleasure  at  being 
approached  by  the  smiling  lad.  Both  Mrs.  Lincoln 
and  Emerson  were  failing  in  their  minds  at  the  time, 
however,  which  satisfactorily  explains  their  coolness, 
at  least  for  the  author.  In  Mrs.  Lincoln's  case  an 
attempt  was  made  to  interest  her  in  an  autographed 
photograph  of  Gen.  Grant.  But  "  Edward  saw 
that  the  widow  of  the  great  Lincoln  did  not  men 
tally  respond  to  his  pleasure  in  his  possession." 
Could  it  have  been  possible  that  the  widow  of  the 
great  Lincoln  was  a  trifle  bored? 

The  account  of  the  intrusion  on  Emerson  in  Con 
cord  borders  on  the  sacrilegious.  Here  was  the  ven 
erable  philosopher,  five  months  before  his  death, 
when  his  great  mind  had  already  gone  on  before  him, 
being  visited  by  a  strange  lad  with  a  passion  for 
autographs,  who  sat  and  watched  for  those  lucid 
moments  when  the  sun  would  break  through  the 
clouded  brain,  making  it  possible  for  Emerson  to 
hold  the  pen  and  form  the  letters  of  his  name.  Then 
young  Edward  was  off,  with  another  trophy  in  his 
belt  and  another  stride  made  in  his  progress  toward 

[219] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

Americanization.  Lovers  of  Emerson  could  wish 
that  the  impersonal  editor  of  these  memoirs  had 
omitted  the  account  of  this  victory. 

Americanization  seems,  from  the  present  docu 
ment,  to  consist  of,  first,  making  as  many  influential 
friends  as  possible  who  may  be  able  to  help  you  at 
some  future  time;  second,  making  as  much  money 
as  possible  (young  Edward  used  his  position  as  sten 
ographer  to  Jay  Gould  to  glean  tips  on  the  market, 
thereby  cleaning  up  for  himself  and  his  Sunday- 
school  teacher  at  Plymouth  Church),  and  third, 
keeping  your  eye  open  for  the  main  chance. 

In  conclusion,  nothing  more  fitting  could  be  quoted 
than  the  touching  caption  under  the  picture  of  the 
author's  grandmother,  "  who  counselled  each  of  her 
children  to  make  the  world  a  better  and  more  beau 
tiful  place  to  live  in  —  a  counsel  which  is  now  being 
carried  on  by  her  grandchildren,  one  of  whom  is  Ed 
ward  Bok." 

Could  detachment  of  author  and  hero  be  more 
complete? 


[220] 


XLIII 
ZANE   GREY'S    MOVIE 

THE  hum  of  the  moving-picture  machine  is  the 
predominating  note  in  "The  Mysterious 
Rider,"  Zane  Grey's  latest  contribution  to  the  liter 
ature  of  unrealism.  All  that  is  necessary  for  a  com 
plete  illusion  is  the  insertion  of  three  or  four  news 
photographs  at  the  end,  showing  how  they  catch 
salmon  in  the  Columbia  River,  the  allegorical  floats 
in  the  Los  Angeles  Carnival  of  Roses  and  the  ice- 
covered  fire  ruins  in  the  business  section  of  Wor 
cester,  Mass. 

In  order  that  the  change  from  book  to  film  may 
be  made  as  quickly  as  possible,  the  author  has  writ 
ten  his  story  in  the  language  of  the  moving-picture 
subtitle.  All  that  the  continuity-writer  in  the  studio 
will  have  to  do  will  be  to  take  every  third  sentence 
from  the  book  and  make  a  subtitle  from  it.  We 
might  save  him  the  trouble  and  do  it  here,  together 
with  some  suggestions  for  incidental  decorations. 

Remember,  nothing  will  be  quoted  below  which  is 
not  in  the  exact  wording  of  Zane  Grey's  text. 
[221] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

We  first  see  Columbine  Belllounds,  adopted 
daughter  of  old  Belllounds  the  rancher  of  Colorado. 
She  is  riding  along  the  trail  overlooking  the  valley. 

"TODAY  GIRLISH  ORDEALS  AND  GRIEFS 
SEEMED  BACK  IN  THE  PAST:  SHE  WAS  A 
WOMAN  AT  NINETEEN  AND  FACE  TO  FACE 
WITH  THE  FIRST  GREAT  PROBLEM  IN  HER 
LIFE."  (Suggestion  for  title  decoration:  A  pair 
of  reluctant  feet  standing  at  the  junction  of  a  brook 
and  a  river.) 

She  stops  to  pick  some  columbines  and  solilo 
quizes.  The  author  says:  "  She  spoke  aloud,  as  if 
the  sound  of  her  voice  might  convince  her,"  but  it 
is  not  clear  from  the  text  just  what  she  expected  to 
be  convinced  of.  Here  is  her  argument  to  herself : 

"COLUMBINE!  ...  SO  THEY  NAMED 
ME  — THOSE  MINERS  WHO  FOUND  ME  — 
A  BABY  — LOST  IN  THE  WOODS  — ASLEEP 
AMONG  THE  COLUMBINES."  (Decorative 
nasturtiums.) 

Having  convinced  herself  in  these  reassuring 
words  as  she  stands  alone  on  the  ridge  in  God's 
great  outdoors,  she  explains  that  she  has  promised 
to  marry  Jack  Belllounds,  the  worthless  son  of  her 
foster-father,  although  any  one  can  tell  that  she  is 
in  love  with  Wilson  Moore,  a  cow-puncher  on  the 
ranch.  You  will  understand  what  a  sacrifice  this 
[222] 


ZANE  GREY'S  MOVIE 

was  to  be  when  the  author  says  that  "  the  lower 
part  of  Jack  Bellloimds's  face  was  weak." 

To  the  ranch  comes  "  Hell-Bent "  Wade,  the  mys 
terious  man  of  the  plains.  He  applies  for  a  job,  and 
not  only  that,  but  he  gets  it,  which  gives  him  a 
chance  to  let  us  know  that: 

"EIGHTEEN  YEARS  AGO  HE  HAD 
DRIVEN  THE  WOMAN  HE  LOVED  AWAY 
FROM  HIM,  OUT  INTO  THE  WORLD  WITH 
HER  BABY  GIRL  .  .  .  JEALOUS  FOOL!  .  .  . 
TOO  LATE  HAD  HE  DISCOVERED  HIS 
FATAL  BLUNDER.  .  .  .  THAT  WAS  BENT 
WADE'S  SECRET."  (Fancy  sketch  of  a  secret.) 

And  as  we  already  know  that  Columbine  is  al 
most  nineteen  (I  think  she  told  herself  this  fact 
aloud  once  when  she  was  out  riding  alone,  just  to 
convince  herself),  the  shock  is  not  so  great  as  it 
might  have  been  to  hear  Wade  murmur  aloud 
(doubtless  to  convince  himself  too),  "  Baby  would 
have  been  —  let's  see  —  'most  nineteen  years  old 
now  —  if  she'd  lived." 

Any  bets  on  who  Columbine  really  is? 

Let  us  digress  from  the  scenario  a  minute  to  cite 
a  scintillating  passage,  one  of  many  in  the  book. 
Wade  is  speaking: 

" '  You  can  never  tell  what  a  dog  is  until  you 

[223] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

know  him.  Dogs  are  like  men.  Some  of  'em  look 
good,  but  they're  really  bad.  An'  that  works  the 
other  way  round.'  " 

Oscar  Wilde  stuff,  that  is.  How  often  have  you 
felt  the  truth  of  what  Mr.  Grey  says  here,  and  yet 
have  never  been  able  to  put  it  into  words!  It  is 
this  ability  to  put  thoughts  into  words  that  makes 
him  one  of  our  most  popular  authors  today. 

But  enough  of  this.  "  Hell-Bent "  Wade  deter 
mines  that  his  little  gel  shall  not  know  him  as  her 
father,  and,  furthermore,  that  she  shall  not  marry 
Jack  Belllounds.  So  he  goes  to  the  cabin  of  Wils 
Moore  and  tells  him  that  Columbine  is  unhappy  at 
the  thought  of  her  approaching  —  you  guessed  it  — 
nuptials. 

"  PARD!     SHE  LOVES  ME  —  STILL?  " 
"  WILS,  HERS  IS  THE  KIND  THAT  GROWS 
STRONGER  WITH  TIME,  I  KNOW."     (Heart 
and  an  hour-glass  intertwined.) 

Let  it  be  said  right  here,  however,  that  Jack 
Belllounds,  rough  and  villainous  as  he  is,  is  the  kind 
of  cow-puncher  who  says  to  his  father:  "I  still 
love  you,  dad,  despite  the  cruel  thing  you  did  to 
me."  No  cow-puncher  who  says  "  despite "  can 
be  entirely  bad.  Neither  can  he  be  a  cow-puncher. 

[224] 


ZANE  GREY'S  MOVIE 

It  is  later,  after  a  thrilling  series  of  physical 
encounters,  that  Columbine  tells  Jack  Belllounds  in 
so  many  words  that  she  loves  Wils  Moore.  "  Then 
Wade  saw  the  glory  of  her  —  saw  her  mother  again 
in  that  proud,  fierce  uplift  of  face  that  flamed  red 
and  then  blazed  white  —  saw  hate  and  passion  and 
love  in  all  their  primal  nakedness. 

"LOVE  HIM!  LOVE  WILSON  MOORE? 
YES,  YOU  FOOL!  I  LOVE  HIM!  YES!  YES! 
YES!  "  (Decorative  heart,  in  which  a  little  door 
slowly  opens,  showing  the  face  of  Columbine.) 

But  time  is  short  and  there  is  a  Semon  comedy  to 
follow  immediately  after  this.  So  all  that  we  can 
divulge  is  that  Jack  has  Wils  Moore  wrongly  ac 
cused  of  cattle-rustling,  bringing  down  on  his  own 
head  the  following  chatty  bit  from  his  affianced 
bride : 

"  SO  THAT'S  YOUR  REVENGE.  .  .  .  BUT 
YOU'RE  TO  RECKON  WITH  ME,  JACK 
BELLLOUNDS!  YOU  VILLAIN!  YOU  DEVIL! 
YOU" 

It  would  be  unfair  to  the  millions  of  readers  who 
will  struggle  for  possession  of  the  circulating-library 
copies  of  "  The  Mysterious  Rider  "  to  tell  just  what 
happens  after  this.  But  need  we  hesitate  to  divulge 
that  the  final  subtitle  will  be: 

[225] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

"  '  I  HAVE  FAITH  AND  HOPE  AND  LOVE, 
FOR  I  AM  HIS  DAUGHTER.'  A  FAINT,  COOL 
BREEZE  STRAYED  THROUGH  THE  ASPENS, 
RUSTLING  THE  LEAVES  WHISPERINGLY, 
AND  THE  SLENDER  COLUMBINES,  GLEAM 
ING  PALE  IN  THE  TWILIGHT  LIFTED 
THEIR  SWEET  FACES."  (Decorative  bull.) 


[226] 


XLIV 
SUPPRESSING   "JURGEN" 

OF  course  it  was  silly  to  suppress  "  Jurgen." 
That  goes  without  saying.  But  it  seems 
equally  silly,  because  of  its  being  suppressed,  to 
hail  it  as  high  art.  It  is  simply  Mr.  James  Branch 
Cabell's  quaint  way  of  telling  a  raw  story  and  it 
isn't  particularly  his  own  way,  either.  Personally, 
I  like  the  modern  method  much  better. 

"  Jurgen  "  is  a  frank  imitation  of  the  old-time 
pornographers  and  although  it  is  a  very  good  imi 
tation,  it  need  not  rank  Mr.  Cabell  any  higher  than 
the  maker  of  a  plaster-of-paris  copy  of  some  Boeotian 
sculptural  oddity. 

The  author,  in  defense  of  his  fortunate  book, 
lifts  his  eyebrows  and  says,  "  Honi  soit."  He 
claims,  and  quite  rightly,  that  everything  he  has 
written  has  at  least  one  decent  meaning,  and  that 
anyone  who  reads  anything  indecent  into  it  automat 
ically  convicts  himself  of  being  in  a  pathological 
condition.  The  question  is,  if  Mr.  Cabell  had  been 
convinced  beforehand  that  nowhere  in  all  this  broad 
land  would  there  be  anyone  who  would  read  another 

[227] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

meaning  into  his  lily-white  words,  would  he  ever 
have  bothered  to  write  the  book  at  all? 

Mr.  Cabell  is  admittedly  a  genealogist.  He  is  an 
earnest  student  of  the  literature  of  past  centuries. 
He  has  become  so  steeped  in  the  phrases  and  lit 
erary  mannerisms  of  the  middle  and  upper-middle 
ages  that,  even  in  his  book  of  modern  essays  " Be 
yond  Life,"  he  is  constantly  emitting  strange  words 
which  were  last  used  by  the  correspondents 
who  covered  the  crusades.  No  man  has  to  be  as 
artificially  obsolete  as  Mr.  Cabell  is.  He  likes 
to  be. 

In  "  Jurgen  "  he  has  simply  let  himself  go.  There 
is  no  pretense  of  writing  like  a  modern.  There  is 
no  pretense  of  writing  in  the  style  of  even  James 
Branch  Cabell.  It  is  frankly  "  in  the  manner  of  " 
those  ancient  authors  whose  works  are  sold  sur 
reptitiously  to  college  students  by  gentlemen  who 
whisper  their  selling-talk  behind  a  line  of  red  sample 
bindings.  And  it  is  not  in  the  manner  of  Rabelais, 
although  Rabelais's  name  has  been  frequently  used 
in  describing  "  Jurgen."  Rabelais  seldom  hid  his 
thought  behind  two  meanings.  There  was  only  one 
meaning,  and  you  could  take  it  or  leave  it.  And 
Rabelais  would  never  have  said  "  Honi  soit "  by 
way  of  defense. 

The  general  effect  is  one  of  Fielding  or  Sterne 

[228] 


SUPPRESSING   "JURGEN" 

telling  the  story  of  Sir  Gawain  and  the  Green 
Knight,  with  their  own  embellishments,  to  the  boys 
at  the  club. 

If  all  that  is  necessary  to  produce  a  work  of  art 
is  to  take  a  drummer's  story  and  tell  it  in  dusty 
English,  we  might  try  our  luck  with  the  modern 
smoking-car  yarn  about  the  traveling-man  who 
came  to  the  country  hotel  late  at  night,  and  see 
how  far  we  can  get  with  it  in  the  manner  of  James 
Branch  Cabell  imitating  Fielding  imitating  some 
one  else. 

It  is  a  tale  which  they  narrate  in  Nouveau  Ro- 
chelle,  saying:  In  the  old  days  there  came  one  night 
a  traveling  man  to  an  inn,  and  the  night  was  late, 
and  he  was  sore  beset,  what  with  rag-tag-and-bob- 
tail.  Eftsoons  he  made  known  his  wants  to  the 
churl  behind  the  desk,  who  was  named  Gogyrvan. 
And  thus  he  spake: 

"  Any  rooms?  " 

"  Indeed,  sir,  no,"  was  Gogyrvan 's  glose. 

"  Now  but  this  is  an  deplorable  thing,  God  wot," 
says  the  traveling  man.  "  Fie,  brother,  but  you 
think  awry.  Come,  don  smart  your  thinking-cap 
and  answer  me  again.  An'  you  have  forgot  my 
query;  it  was:  '  Any  rooms,  bo?  '  " 

[229] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

Whereat  the  churl  behind  the  desk  gat  him  down 
from  his  stool  and  closed  one  eye  in  a  wink. 

"  There  is  one  room/'  he  says,  and  places  his 
forefinger  along  the  side  of  his  nose,  in  the  manner 
of  a  man  who  places  his  forefinger  along  the  side  of 
his  nose. 

But  at  this  point  I  am  stopped  short  by  the  warn 
ing  passage  through  the  room  of  a  cold,  damp  cur 
rent  of  air  as  from  the  grave,  and  I  know  that  it 
is  one  of  Mr.  Sumner's  vice  deputies  flitting  by  on 
his  rounds  in  defense  of  the  public  morals.  So  I 
can  go  no  further,  for  public  morals  must  be  de 
fended  even  at  the  cost  of  public  morality  (a  state 
ment  which  means  nothing  but  which  sounds  rather 
well,  I  think.  I  shall  try  to  work  it  in  again  some 
time). 

But  perhaps  enough  has  been  said  to  show  that 
it  is  perfectly  easy  to  write  something  that  will 
sound  classic  if  you  can  only  remember  enough 
old  words.  When  Mr.  Cabell  has  learned  the  lan 
guage,  he  ought  to  write  a  good  book  in  modern 
English.  There  are  lots  of  people  who  read  it  and 
they  speak  very  highly  of  it  as  a  means  of  ex 
pression. 

But  there  are  certain  things  that  you  cannot  ex 
press  in  it  without  sounding  crass,  which  would  be 
a  disadvantage  in  telling  a  story  like  "  Jurgen." 
[230] 


XLV 
ANTI-IBANEZ 

WHILE  on  the  subject  of  books  which  we  read 
because  we  think  we  ought  to,  and  while 
Vicente  Blasco  Ibanez  is  on  the  ocean  and  can't  hear 
what  is  being  said,  let's  form  a  secret  society. 

I  will  be  one  of  any  three  to  meet  behind  a  barn 
and  admit  that  I  would  not  give  a  good  gosh  darn 
if  a  fortune-teller  were  to  tell  me  tomorrow  that  I 
should  never,  never  have  a  chance  to  read  another 
book  by  the  great  Spanish  novelist. 

Any  of  the  American  reading  public  who  desire 
to  join  this  secret  society  may  do  so  without 
fear  of  publicity,  as  the  names  will  not  be  given 
out.  The  only  means  of  distinguishing  a  fellow- 
member  will  be  a  tiny  gold  emblem,  to  be  worn  in 
the  lapel,  representing  the  figure  (couchant)  o»f 
Spain's  most  touted  animal.  The  motto  will  be 
"  Nimmermehr,"  which  is  a  German  translation  of 
the  Spanish  phrase  "  Not  even  once  again." 

Simply  because  I  myself  am  not  impressed  by  a 
book,  I  have  no  authority  to  brand  anyone  who 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

does  not  like  it  as  a  poseur  and  say  that  he  is  only 
making  believe  that  he  likes  it.  And  there  must 
be  a  great  many  highly  literary  people  who  really 
and  sincerely  do  think  that  Sefior  Blasco's  books 
are  the  finest  novels  of  the  epoch. 

It  would  therefore  be  presumptuous  of  me  to  say 
that  Spain  is  now,  for  the  first  time  since  before 
1898,  in  a  position  to  kid  the  United  States  and, 
vicariously  through  watching  her  famous  son  count 
his  royalties  and  gate  receipts,  to  feel  avenged  for 
the  loss  of  her  islands.  If  America  has  found  some 
thing  superfine  in  Ibafiez  that  his  countrymen  have 
missed,  then  America  is  of  course  to  be  congratu 
lated  and  not  kidded. 

But  probably  no  one  was  more  surprised  than 
Blasco  when  he  suddenly  found  himself  a  lion  in 
our  literary  arena  instead  of  in  his  accustomed  role 
of  bull  in  his  home  ring.  And  those  who  know  say 
that  you  could  have  knocked  his  compatriots  over 
with  a  feather  when  the  news  came  that  old  man 
Ibanez's  son  had  made  good  in  the  United  States 
to  the  extent  of  something  like  five  hundred  million 
pesetas. 

For,  like  the  prophet  whom  some  one  was  telling 
about,  Ibafiez  was  not  known  at  home  as  a 
particularly  hot  tamale.  But,  then,  he  never  had 
such  a  persistent  publisher  in  Spain,  and  book-ad- 

[232] 


ANTI-IBANEZ 

vertising  is  not  the  art  there  that  it  is  in  America. 
When  the  final  accounting  of  the  great  success  of 
"  The  Four  Horsemen  of  the  Apocalypse  "  in  this 
country  is  taken,  honorable  mention  must  be  made 
of  the  man  at  the  E.  P.  Button  &  Co.  store  who 
had  charge  of  the  advertising. 

The  great  Spanish  novelist  was  in  the  French 
propaganda  service  during  the  war.  It  was  his 
job  to  make  Germany  unpopular  in  Spanish.  "  The 
Four  Horsemen  of  the  Apocalypse "  is  obviously 
propaganda,  and  not  particularly  subtle  propaganda 
either.  Certain  chapters  might  have  come  direct 
from  our  own  Creel  committee,  and  one  may  still 
be  true  to  the  Allied  cause  and  yet  maintain  that 
propaganda  and  literature  do  not  mix  with  any  de 
gree  of  illusion. 

There  is  no  question,  of  course,  that  those  chap 
ters  in  the  book  which  are  descriptive  of  the  ad 
vance  and  subsequent  retreat  of  the  German  troops 
under  the  eye  of  Don  Marcelo  are  masterpieces  of 
descriptive  reporting.  But  Philip  Gibbs  has  given 
us  a  whole  book  of  masterpieces  of  descriptive 
reporting  which  do  not  bear  the  stamp  of  ap 
proval  of  the  official  propaganda  bureau.  And, 
furthermore,  Philip  Gibbs  does  not  wear  a  sport 
shirt  open  at  the  neck.  At  least,  he  never  had  his 
picture  taken  that  way. 

[233] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

As  for  the  rest  of  the  books  that  were  dragged 
out  from  the  Spanish  for  "  storehouse  "  when  "  The 
Four  Horsemen  "  romped  in  winners,  I  can  speak 
only  as  I  would  speak  of  "  The  World's  Most  Fa 
mous  Battles  "  or  "  Heroines  in  Shakespeare."  I 
have  looked  them  over.  I  gave  "  Mare  Nostrum  " 
a  great  deal  of  my  very  valuable  time  because  the 
advertisements  spoke  so  highly  of  it.  "  Woman 
Triumphant "  took  less  time  because  I  decided  to 
stop  earlier  in  the  book.  "  Blood  and  Sand "  I 
passed  up,  having  once  seen  a  Madrid  bull-fight  for 
myself,  which  may  account  for  this  nasty  attitude 
I  have  toward  any  Spanish  product.  I  am  told, 
however,  that  this  is  the  best  of  them  all. 

It  is  remarkable  that  for  a  writer  who  seems  to 
have  left  such  an  indelible  imprint  in  the  minds  of 
the  American  people,  whose  works  have  been  ranked 
with  the  greatest  of  all  time  and  who  received  more 
publicity  during  one  day  of  his  visit  here  than 
Charles  Dickens  received  during  his  whole  sojourn 
in  America,  Sefior  Blasco  and  his  works  form  a 
remarkably  small  part  of  the  spontaneous  literary 
conversation  of  the  day.  The  characters  which  he 
has  created  have  not  taken  any  appreciable  hold 
in  the  public  imagination.  Their  names  are  never 
used  as  examples  of  anything.  Who  were  some  of 
his  chief  characters,  by  the  way?  What  did  they 

[234] 


ANTI-IBANEZ 

say  that  was  worth  remembering?  What  did  they 
do  that  characters  have  not  been  doing  for  many 
generations?  Did  you  ever  hear  anyone  say,  "  He 
talks  like  a  character  in  Ibafiez,"  or  "  This  might 
have  happened  in  one  of  Ibanez's  books"? 

Of  course  it  is  possible  for  a  man  to  write  a  great 
book  from  which  no  one  would  quote.  That  is 
probably  happening  all  the  time.  But  it  is  because 
no  one  has  read  it.  Here  we  have  an  author  whose 
vogue  in  this  country,  according  to  statistics,  is  equal 
to  that  of  any  writer  of  novels  in  the  world.  And 
as  soon  as  his  publicity  department  stops  function 
ing,  I  should  like  to  lay  a  little  bet  that  he  will  not 
be  heard  of  again. 


[235] 


XL  VI 
ON   BRICKLAYING 

AFTER  a  series  of  introspective  accounts  of 
the  babyhood,  childhood,  adolescence  and  in 
evitably  gloomy  maturity  of  countless  men  and 
women,  it  is  refreshing  to  turn  to  "  Bricklaying  in 
Modern  Practice,"  by  Stewart  Scrimshaw.  "  Heigh- 
ho!  "  one  says.  "  Back  to  normal  again!  " 

For  bricklaying  is  nothing  if  not  normal,  and  Mr. 
Scrimshaw  has  given  just  enough  of  the  romantic 
charm  of  artistic  enthusiasm  to  make  it  positively 
fascinating. 

"  There  was  a  time  when  man  did  not  know  how 
to  lay  bricks,"  he  says  in  his  scholarly  introductory 
chapter  on  "  The  Ancient  Art,"  "  a  time  when  he 
did  not  know  how  to  make  bricks.  There  was  a 
time  when  fortresses  and  cathedrals  were  unknown, 
and  churches  and  residences  were  not  to  be  seen 
on  the  face  of  the  earth.  But  today  we  see  won 
derful  architecture,  noble  and  glorious  structures, 
magnificent  skyscrapers  and  pretty  home-like 
bungalows." 

To    one    who    has    been    scouring    Westchester 

[236] 


ON  BRICKLAYING 

County  for  the  past  two  months  looking  at  the 
structures  which  are  being  offered  for  sale  as  homes, 
"  pretty  home-like  bungalows "  comes  as  le  mot 
juste.  They  certainly  are  no  more  than  pretty 
home-like. 

One  cannot  read  far  in  Mr.  Scrimshaw's  book 
without  blushing  for  the  inadequacy  of  modern  edu 
cation.  We  are  turned  out  of  our  schools  as  edu 
cated  young  men  and  women,  and  yet  what  college 
graduate  here  tonight  can  tell  me  when  the  first 
brick  in  Amercia  was  made?  Or  even  where  it  was 
made?  ...  I  thought  not. 

Well,  it  was  made  in  New  Haven  in  1650.  Mr. 
Scrimshaw  does  not  say  what  it  was  made  for, 
but  a  conjecture  would  be  that  it  was  the  handiwork 
of  Yale  students  for  tactical  use  in  the  Harvard 
game.  (Oh,  I  know  that  Yale  wasn't  running  in 
1650,  but  what  difference  does  that  make  in  an 
informal  little  article  like  this?  It  is  getting  so  that 
a  man  can't  make  any  statement  at  all  without  being 
caught  up  on  it  by  some  busybody  or  other.) 

But  let's  get  down  to  the  art  itself. 

Mr.  Scrimshaw's  first  bit  of  advice  is  very  sound. 
"  The  bricklayer  should  first  take  a  keen  glance  at 
the  scaffolding  upon  which  he  is  to  work,  to  see 
that  there  is  nothing  broken  or  dangerous  connected 

[237] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

with  it.  ...  This  is  essential,  because  more  im 
portant  than  anything  else  to  him  is  the  preserva 
tion  of  his  life  and  limb." 

Oh,  Mr.  Scrimshaw,  how  true  that  is!  If  I  were 
a  bricklayer  I  would  devote  practically  my  whole 
morning  inspecting  the  scaffolding  on  which  I  was 
to  work.  Whatever  else  I  shirked,  I  would  put  my 
whole  heart  and  soul  into  this  part  of  my  task. 
Every  rope  should  be  tested,  every  board  examined, 
and  I  doubt  if  even  then  I  would  go  up  on  the  scaf 
fold.  Any  bricks  that  I  could  not  lay  with  my  feet 
on  terra  firma  (there  is  a  joke  somewhere  about 
terra  cotta,  but  I'm  busy  now)  could  be  laid  by 
some  one  else. 

But  we  don't  seem  to  be  getting  ahead  in  our 
instruction  in  practical  bricklaying.  Well,  all  right, 
take  this: 

"  Pressed  bricks,  which  are  buttered,  can  be  laid 
with  a  one-eighth-inch  joint,  although  a  joint  of 
three-sixteenths  of  an  inch  is  to  be  preferred." 

Joe,  get  this  gentleman  a  joint  of  three-sixteenths 
of  an  inch,  buttered.  Service,  that's  our  motto ! 

It  takes  a  book  like  this  to  make  a  man  realize 
what  he  misses  in  his  everyday  life.  For  instance, 
who  would  think  that  right  here  in  New  York  there 

[238] 


ON  BRICKLAYING 

were  people  who  specialized  in  corbeling?  Rain  or 
shine,  hot  or  cold,  you  will  find  them  corbeling 
around  like  Trojans.  Or  when  they  are  not  corbel 
ing  they  may  be  toothing.  (I  too  thought  that  this 
might  be  a  misprint  for  "  teething,"  but  it  is  spelled 
"  toothing  "  throughout  the  book,  so  I  guess  that 
Mr.  Scrimshaw  knows  what  he  is  about.)  Of  all 
departments  of  bricklaying  I  should  think  that  it 
would  be  more  fun  to  tooth  than  to  do  anything 
else.  But  it  must  be  tiring  work.  I  suppose  that 
many  a  bricklayer's  wife  has  said  to  her  neighbor, 
"  I  am  having  a  terrible  time  with  my  husband 
this  week.  He  is  toothing,  and  comes  home  so  cross 
and  irritable  that  nothing  suits  him." 

Another  thing  that  a  bricklayer  has  to  be  careful 
of,  according  to  the  author  (and  I  have  no  reason 
to  contest  his  warning),  is  the  danger  of  stepping 
on  spawls.  If  there  is  one  word  that  I  would  leave 
with  the  young  bricklayer  about  to  enter  his  trade 
it  is  "  Beware  of  the  spawls,  my  boy."  They  are 
insidious,  those  spawls  are.  You  think  you  are  all 
right  and  then  —  pouf!  Or  maybe  "  crash  "  would 
be  a  better  descriptive  word.  Whatever  noise  is 
made  by  a  spawl  when  stepped  on  is  the  one  I  want. 
Perhaps  "  swawk  "  would  do.  I'll  have  to  look  up 
"  spawl "  first,  I  guess. 

[239] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

Well,  anyway,  there  you  have  practical  brick 
laying  in  a  nutshell.  Of  course  there  are  lots  of 
other  points  in  the  book  and  some  dandy  pictures 
and  it  would  pay  you  to  read  it.  But  in  case  you 
haven't  time,  just  skim  over  this  resume  again  and 
you  will  have  the  gist  of  it. 


[240] 


XLVII 
"AMERICAN   ANNIVERSARIES  " 

MR.  PHILIP  R.  DILLON  has  compiled  and 
published  in  his  "  American  Anniversaries  " 
a  book  for  men  who  do  things.  For  every  day  in 
the  year  there  is  a  record  of  something  which  has 
been  accomplished  in  American  history.  For  in 
stance,  under  Jan.  i  we  find  that  the  parcel-post 
system  was  inaugurated  in  the  United  States  in 
1913,  while  Jan.  2  is  given  as  the  anniversary  of 
the  battle  of  Murfreesboro  (or  Stone's  River,  as  you 
prefer).  The  whole  book  is  like  that;  just  one 
surprise  after  another. 

What,  for  instance,  do  you  suppose  that  Saturday 
marked  the  completion  of?  ...  Presuming  that 
no  one  has  answered  correctly,  I  will  disclose  (after 
consulting  Mr.  Dillon's  book)  that  July  31  marked 
the  completion  of  the  253d  year  since  the  signing 
of  the  Treaty  of  Breda.  But  what,  you  may  say  — 
and  doubtless  are  saying  at  this  very  minute  —  what 
has  the  Treaty  of  Breda  (which  everyone  knows 
was  signed  in  Holland  by  representatives  of  Eng 
land,  France,  Holland  and  Denmark)  got  to  do  with 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

American  history?  And  right  there  is  where  Mr. 
Dillon  and  I  would  have  you.  In  the  Treaty  of 
Breda,  Acadia  (or  Nova  Scotia)  was  given  to  France 
and  New  York  and  New  Jersey  were  confirmed  to 
England.  So,  you  see,  inhabitants  of  New  York 
and  New  Jersey  (and,  after  all,  who  isn't?)  should 
have  especial  cause  for  celebrating  July  31  as 
Breda  Day,  for  if  it  hadn't  been  for  that  treaty 
we  might  have  belonged  to  Poland  and  been  mixed 
up  in  all  the  mess  that  is  now  going  on  over 
there. 

I  must  confess  that  I  turned  to  the  date  of  the 
anniversary  of  my  own  birth  with  no  little  expecta 
tion.  Of  course  I  am  not  so  very  well  known  except 
among  the  tradespeople  in  my  town,  but  I  should  be 
willing  to  enter  myself  in  a  popularity  contest  with 
the  Treaty  of  Breda.  But  evidently  there  is  a 
conspiracy  of  silence  directed  against  me  on  the 
part  of  the  makers  of  anniversary  books  and  cal 
endars.  While  no  mention  was  made  of  my  having 
been  born  on  Sept.  15,  considerable  space  was  given 
to  recording  the  fact  that  on  that  date  in  1840  a 
patent  for  a  knitting  machine  was  issued  to  the 
inventor,  who  was  none  other  than  Isaac  Wixan 
Lamb  of  Salem,  Mass. 

Now  I  would  be  the  last  one  to  belittle  the  im- 
[242  ] 


"  AMERICAN  ANNIVERSARIES  " 

portance  of  knitting  or  the  invention  of  a  knitting 
machine.  I  know  some  very  nice  people  who  knit 
a  great  deal.  But  really,  when  it  comes  to  anniver 
saries  I  don't  see  where  Isaac  Wixon  Lamb  gets  off 
to  crash  in  ahead  of  me  or  a  great  many  other 
people  that  I  could  name.  And  it  doesn't  help  any, 
either,  to  find  that  James  Fenimore  Cooper  and 
William  Howard  Taft  are  both  mentioned  as  having 
been  born  on  that  day  or  that  the  chief  basic  patent 
for  gasoline  automobiles  in  America  was  issued  in 
1895  to  George  B.  Selden.  It  certainly  was  a  big 
day  for  patents.  But  one  realizes  more  than  ever 
after  reading  this  section  that  you  have  to  have  a 
big  name  to  get  into  an  anniversary  book.  The  av 
erage  citizen  has  no  show  at  all. 

In  spite  of  these  rather  obvious  omissions,  Mr. 
Dillon's  book  is  both  valuable  and  readable.  Espec 
ially  in  those  events  which  occurred  early  in  the 
country's  history  is  there  material  for  comparison 
with  the  happenings  of  the  present  day,  events 
which  will  some  day  be  incorporated  in  a  similar 
book  compiled  by  some  energetic  successor  of  Mr. 
Dillon. 

For  instance,  under  Oct.  27,  1659,  we  find  that 
William  Robinson  and  Marmaduke  Stevenson  were 
banished  from  New  Hampshire  on  the  charge  of  be- 

[243] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

ing  Quakers  and  were  later  executed  for  returning  to 
the  colony.  Imagine! 

And  on  Dec.  8,  1837,  Wendell  Phillips  delivered 
his  first  abolition  speech  at  Boston  in  Faneuil  Hall, 
as  a  result  of  which  he  got  himself  known  around 
Boston  as  an  undesirable  citizen,  a  dangerous  radical 
and  a  revolutionary  trouble-maker.  It  hardly  seems 
possible  now,  does  it? 

And  on  July  4,  1776  —  but  there,  why  rub  it  in? 


[  244] 


XLVIII 
A  WEEK-END  WITH  WELLS 

IN  the  February  Bookman  there  is  an  informal 
article  by  John  Elliot  called  "  At  Home  with  H. 
G.  Wells  "  in  which  we  are  let  in  on  the  ground  floor 
in  the  Wells  household  and  shown  "  H.  G."  (as  his 
friends  and  his  wife  call  him)  at  play.  It  is  an 
interesting  glimpse  at  the  small  doings  of  a  great 
man,  but  there  is  one  feature  of  those  doings  which 
has  an  ominous  sound. 

"  The  Wells  that  everyone  loves  who  sees  him 
at  Easton  is  the  human  Wells,  the  family  Wells, 
the  jovial  Wells,  Wells  the  host  of  some  Sunday 
afternoon  party.  For  a  distance  of  ten  or  twenty 
miles  round  folks  come  on  Sunday  to  play  hockey 
and  have  tea.  Old  and  young  —  people  from  down 
London  who  never  played  hockey  before  in  their 
lives;  country  farmers  and  their  daughters,  and 
everybody  else  who  lives  in  the  district  —  troop  over 
and  bring  whoever  happens  to  be  the  week-end 
guest.  Wells  is  delightful  to  them  all.  He  doesn't 
give  a  rap  if  they  are  solid  Tories,  Bolsheviks,  Lib 
erals,  or  men  and  women  of  no  political  leanings, 

[245] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

Can  you  play  hockey?  is  all  that  matters.  If  you 
say  No  you  are  rushed  toward  a  pile  of  sticks  and 
given  one  and  told  to  go  in  the  forward  line;  if  you 
say  Yes  you  are  probably  made  a  vice  captain  on 
the  spot." 

I  am  frank  to  confess  that  this  sounds  perfectly 
terrible  to  me.  I  can't  imagine  a  worse  place  in 
which  to  spend  a  week-end  than  one  where  your  host 
is  always  boisterously  forcing  you  to  take  part  in 
games  and  dances  about  which  you  know  nothing. 
A  week-end  guest  ought  to  be  ignored,  allowed  to 
rummage  about  alone  among  the  books,  live  stock 
and  cold  food  in  the  ice-box  whenever  he  feels  like 
it,  and  not  rushed  willy-nilly  (something  good  could 
be  done  using  the  famous  Willy-Nilly  correspond 
ence  as  a  base,  but  not  here),  into  whatever  the 
family  itself  may  consider  a  good  time. 

In  such  a  household  as  the  Wells  household  must 
be  you  are  greeted  by  your  hostess  in  a  robust 
manner  with  "  So  glad  you're  on  time.  The  match 
begins  at  two."  And  when  you  say  "  What  match,  " 
you  are  told  that  there  is  a  little  tennis  tournament 
on  for  the  week-end  and  that  you  and  Hank  are 
scheduled  to  start  the  thing  off  with  a  bang.  "  But 
I  haven't  played  tennis  for  five  years,"  you  protest, 
thinking  of  the  delightful  privacy  of  your  own  little 
[246] 


A  WEEK-END  WITH  WELLS 

hall  bedroom  in  town.  "  Never  mind,  it  will  all 
come  back  to  you.  Bill  has  got  some  extra  things 
all  put  out  for  you  upstairs."  So  you  start  off  your 
week-end  by  making  a  dub  of  yourself  and  are 
known  from  that  afternoon  on  by  the  people  who 
didn't  catch  your  name  as  "  the  man  who  had  such 
a  funny  serve." 

Or  if  it  isn't  that,  it's  dancing.  Immediately 
after  dinner,  just  as  you  are  about  to  settle  down 
for  a  comfortable  evening  by  the  fire,  you  notice 
that  they  are  rolling  back  the  rugs.  "  House-clean 
ing?  "  you  suggest,  with  a  nervous  little  laugh.  "  Oh, 
no,  just  a  little  dancing  in  your  honor."  And  then 
you  tell  them  that  your  honor  will  be  satisfied 
perfectly  without  dancing,  that  you  haven't  danced 
since  you  left  school,  that  you  don't  dance  very 
well,  or  that  you  have  hurt  your  foot;  to  which  the 
only  reply  is  an  encouraging  laugh  and  a  hail-fel 
low-well-met  push  out  into  the  middle  of  the  floor. 

A  pox  on  both  your  house  parties! 

And  yet,  in  a  way,  that  is  just  what  one  might 
expect  from  Mr.  Wells.  He  has  done  the  same 
thing  to  me  in  his  books  many  a  time.  I  personally 
have  but  little  facility  for  world-repairing.  I  haven't 
the  slightest  idea  of  how  one  would  go  about  making 
things  better.  And  yet  before  I  am  more  than  two- 

[247] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

thirds  of  the  way  through  "  Joan  and  Peter  "  or 
"  The  Undying  Fire  "  or  "  The  Outline  of  History," 
Mr.  Wells  has  me  out  on  the  hockey-field  waving 
a  stick  with  a  magnificent  enthusiasm  but  no  aim, 
rushing  up  and  down  and  calling,  "  Come  on,  now!  " 
to  no  one  in  particular. 

No  matter  how  discouraging  things  seem  when  I 
pick  up  a  Wells  book,  or  how  averse  I  may  be  to 
launching  out  on  a  crusade  of  any  sort,  I  always 
end  by  walking  with  a  firm  step  to  the  door  (feeling, 
somehow,  that  I  have  grown  quite  a  bit  taller  and 
much  handsomer)  and  saying  quietly:  "  Meadows, 
my  suit  of  armor,  please;  the  one  with  a  chain-mail 
shirt  and  a  purple  plume." 

This,  of  course,  is  silly,  as  any  of  Mr.  Wells's 
critics  will  tell  you.  It  is  the  effect  that  he  has  on 
irresponsible,  visionary  minds.  But  if  all  the  irre 
sponsible,  visionary  minds  in  the  world  become  suffi 
ciently  belligerent  through  a  continued  reading  of 
Mr.  Wells,  or  even  of  the  New  Testament,  who 
knows  but  what  they  may  become  just  practical 
enough  to  take  a  hand  at  running  things?  They 
couldn't  do  much  worse  than  the  responsible,  prac 
tical  minds  have  done,  now,  could  they? 


[248] 


XLIX 
ABOUT   PORTLAND    CEMENT 

PORTLAND  cement  is  "  the  finely  pulverized 
product  resulting  from  the  calcination  to  in 
cipient  fusion  of  an  intimate  mixture  of  properly 
proportioned  argillaceous  and  calcareous  materials 
and  to  which  no  addition  greater  than  3  per  cent 
has  been  made  subsequent  to  calcination." 

That,  in  a  word,  is  the  keynote  of  H.  Colin  Camp 
bell's  "  How  to  Use  Cement  for  Concrete  Construc 
tion."  In  case  you  should  never  read  any  more  of 
the  book,  you  would  have  that. 

But  to  the  reader  who  is  not  satisfied  with  this 
taste  of  the  secret  of  cement  construction  and  who 
reads  on  into  Mr.  Campbell's  work,  there  is  revealed 
a  veritable  mine  of  information.  And  in  the  light 
of  the  recent  turn  of  events  one  might  even  call  it 
significant.  (Any  turn  of  events  will  do.) 

The  first  chapter  is  given  over  to  a  plea  for  con 
crete.  Judging  from  the  claims  made  for  concrete 
by  Mr.  Campbell,  it  will  accomplish  everything  that 
a  return  to  Republican  administration  would  do, 

[249] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

and  wouldn't  be  anywhere  near  so  costly.  It  will 
make  your  barn  fireproof;  it  will  insure  clean  milk 
for  your  children;  it  will  provide  a  safe  housing  for 
your  automobile.  Farm  prosperity  and  concrete  go 
hand  in  hand. 

In  case  there  are  any  other  members  of  society 
who  have  been  with  me  in  thinking  that  Portland 
cement  is  a  product  of  Portland,  Me.,  or  Portland, 
Ore.,  it  might  as  well  be  stated  right  here  and  now 
that  America  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  founding 
of  the  industry,  and  that  the  lucky  Portland  is  an 
island  off  the  south  coast  of  England. 

It  was  a  bright  sunny  afternoon  in  May,  1824, 
when  Joseph  Aspdin,  an  intelligent  bricklayer  of 
Leeds,  England,  was  carelessly  calcining  a  mixture 
of  limestone  and  clay,  as  bricklayers  often  do  on 
their  days  off,  that  he  suddenly  discovered,  on  re 
ducing  the  resulting  clinker  to  a  powder,  that  this 
substance,  on  hardening,  resembled  nothing  so  much 
as  the  yellowish-gray  stone  found  in  the  quarries  on 
the  Isle  of  Portland.  (How  Joe  knew  what  grew 
on  the  Isle  of  Portland  when  his  home  was  in  Leeds 
is  not  explained.  Maybe  he  spent  his  summers  at 
the  Portland  House,  within  three  minutes  of  the 
bathing  beach.) 

At  any  rate,  on  discovering  the  remarkable  simi 
larity  between  the  mess  he  had  cooked  up  and  Port- 

[250] 


ABOUT  PORTLAND  CEMENT 

land  stone,  he  called  to  his  wife  and  said:  "Eunice, 
come  here  a  minute!  What  does  this  remind  you 
of?" 

The  usually  cheerful  brow  of  Eunice  Aspdin 
clouded  for  the  fraction  of  a  second. 

"  That  night  up  at  Bert  and  Edna's?  "  she  ven 
tured. 

"  No,  no,  my  dear,"  said  the  intelligent  brick 
layer,  slightly  irked.  "  Anyone  could  see  that  this 
here  substance  is  a  dead  ringer  for  Portland  stone, 
and  I  am  going  to  make  heaps  and  heaps  of  it  and 
call  it '  Portland  cement.'  It  is  little  enough  that  I 
can  do  for  the  old  island." 

And  so  that's  how  Portland  cement  was  named. 
Rumor  hath  it  that  the  first  Portland  cement  in 
America  was  made  at  Allentown,  Pa.,  in  1875,  but 
I  wouldn't  want  to  be  quoted  as  having  said  that. 
But  I  will  say  that  the  total  annual  production  in 
this  country  is  now  over  90,000,000  barrels. 

It  is  interesting  to  note  that  cement  is  usually 
packed  in  cloth  sacks,  although  sometimes  paper 
bags  are  used. 

"  A  charge  is  made  for  packing  cement  in  paper 
bags,"  the  books  says.  "  These,  of  course,  are  not 
redeemable." 

One  can  understand  their  not  wanting  to  take 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

back  a  paper  bag  in  which  cement  has  been 
wrapped.  The  wonder  is  that  the  bag  lasts  until 
you  get  home  with  it.  I  tried  to  take  six  canta 
loups  home  in  a  paper  bag  the  other  night  and  had 
a  bad  enough  time  of  it.  Cement,  when  it  is  in 
good  form,  must  be  much  worse  than  cantaloup,  and 
the  redeemable  remnants  of  the  bag  must  be  negli 
gible.  But  why  charge  extra  for  using  paper  bags? 
That  seems  like  adding  whatever  it  is  you  add  to 
injury.  Apologies,  rather  than  extra  charge,  should 
be  in  order.  However,  I  suppose  that  these  ce 
ment  people  understand  their  business.  I  shall 
know  enough  to  watch  out,  however,  and  insist  on 
having  whatever  cement  I  may  be  called  upon  to 
carry  home  done  up  in  a  cloth  sack.  "  Not  in  a 
paper  bag,  if  you  please,"  I  shall  say  very  politely 
to  the  clerk. 


[252] 


L 
OPEN   BOOKCASES 

THINGS  have  come  to  a  pretty  pass  when  a 
man  can't  buy  a  bookcase  that  hasn't  got 
glass  doors  on  it.  What  are  we  becoming  —  a  na 
tion  of  weaklings? 

All  over  New  York  city  I  have  been,  —  trying  to 
get  something  in  which  to  keep  books.  And  what 
am  I  shown?  Curio  cabinets,  inclosed  whatnots, 
museum  cases  in  which  to  display  fragments  from 
the  neolithic  age,  and  glass-faced  sarcophagi  for 
dead  butterflies. 

"  But  I  am  apt  to  use  my  books  at  any  time," 
I  explain  to  the  salesman.  "  I  never  can  tell  when 
it  is  coming  on  me.  And  when  I  want  a  book  I 
want  it  quickly.  I  don't  want  to  have  to  send  down 
to  the  office  for  the  key,  and  I  don't  want  to  have 
to  manipulate  any  trick  ball-bearings  and  open  up 
a  case  as  if  I  were  getting  cream-puffs  out  for  a 
customer.  I  want  a  bookcase  for  books  and  not 
books  for  a  bookcase." 

(I  really  don't  say  all  those  clever  things  to  the 
clerk.  It  took  me  quite  a  while  to  think  them  up. 

[253] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

What  I  really  say  is,  timidly,  "  Haven't  you  any 
bookcases  without  glass  doors?  "  and  when  they 
say  "  No,"  I  thank  them  and  walk  into  the  nearest 
dining-room  table.) 

But  if  they  keep  on  getting  arrogant  about  it  I 
shall  speak  up  to  them  one  of  these  fine  days. 
When  I  ask  for  an  open-faced  bookcase  they  look 
with  a  scornful  smile  across  the  salesroom  toward 
the  mahogany  four-posters  and  say: 

"  Oh,  no,  we  don't  carry  those  any  more.  We 
don't  have  any  call  for  them.  Every  one  uses  the 
glass-doored  ones  now.  They  keep  the  books  much 
cleaner." 

Then  the  ideal  procedure  for  a  real  book-lover 
would  be  to  keep  his  books  in  the  original  box, 
snugly  packed  in  excelsior,  with  the  lid  nailed  down. 
Then  they  would  be  nice  and  clean.  And  the  sun 
couldn't  get  at  them  and  ruin  the  bindings.  Faugh! 
(Try  saying  that.  It  doesn't  work  out  at  all  as 
you  think  it's  going  to.  And  it  makes  you  feel 
very  silly  for  having  tried  it.) 

Why,  in,  the  elder  days  bookcases  with  glass  doors 
were  owned  only  by  people  who  filled  them  with 
ten  volumes  of  a  pictorial  history  of  the  Civil  War 
(including  some  swell  steel  engravings),  "Walks 

[254] 


I  thank  them  and  walk  into  the  nearest  dinine-room  table. 


OPEN  BOOKCASES 

ana  Talks  with  John  L.  Stoddard  "  and  "Daily 
Thoughts  for  Daily  Needs,"  done  in  robin's-egg  blue 
with  a  watered  silk  bookmark  dangling  out.  A  set 
of  Sir  Walter  Scott  always  helps  fill  out  a  book 
case  with  glass  doors.  It  looks  well  from  the  front 
and  shows  that  you  know  good  literature  when  you 
see  it.  And  you  don't  have  to  keep  opening  and 
shutting  the  doors  to  get  it  out,  for  you  never  want 
to  get  it  out. 

A  bookcase  with  glass  doors  used  to  be  a  sign 
that  somewhere  in  the  room  there  was  a  crayon  por 
trait  of  Father  when  he  was  a  young  man,  with  a 
real  piece  of  glass  stuck  on  the  portrait  to  represent 
a  diamond  stud. 

And  now  we  are  told  that  "  every  one  buys  book 
cases  with  glass  doors;  we  have  no  call  for  others." 
Soon  we  shall  be  told  that  the  thing  to  do  is  to  buy 
the  false  backs  of  bindings,  such  as  they  have  in 
stage  libraries,  to  string  across  behind  the  glass. 
It  will  keep  us  from  reading  too  much,  and  then, 
too,  no  one  will  want  to  borrow  our  books. 

But  one  clerk  told  me  the  truth.  And  I  am  just 
fearless  enough  to  tell  it  here.  I  know  that  it  will 
kill  my  chances  for  the  Presidency,  but  I  cannot 
stop  to  think  of  that. 

After  advising  me  to  have  a  carpenter  build  me 

[255] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

the  kind  of  bookcase  I  wanted,  and  after  I  had  told 
him  that  I  had  my  name  in  for  a  carpenter  but 
wasn't  due  to  get  him  until  late  in  the  fall,  as  he 
was  waiting  for  prices  to  go  higher  before  taking 
the  job  on,  the  clerk  said: 

"  That's  it.  It's  the  price.  You  see  the  furni 
ture  manufacturers  can  make  much  more  money 
out  of  a  bookcase  with  glass  doors  than  they  can 
without.  When  by  hanging  glass  doors  on  a  piece 
of  furniture  at  but  little  more  expense  to  them 
selves  they  can  get  a  much  bigger  profit,  what's  the 
sense  in  making  them  without  glass  doors?  They 
have  just  stopped  making  them,  that's  all." 

So  you  see  the  American  people  are  being  practi 
cally  forced  into  buying  glass  doors  whether  they 
want  them  or  not.  Is  that  right?  Is  it  fair? 
Where  is  our  personal  liberty  going  to?  What  is 
becoming  of  our  traditional  American  institutions? 

I  don't  know. 


[256] 


LI 
TROUT-FISHING 

I  NEVER  knew  very  much  about  trout-fishing 
anyway,  and  I  certainly  had  no  inkling  that  a 
trout-fisher  had  to  be  so  deceitful  until  I  read 
"  Trout-Fishing  in  Brooks,"  by  G.  Garrow-Green. 
The  thing  is  appalling.  Evidently  the  sport  is 
nothing  but  a  constant  series  of  compromises  with 
one's  better  nature,  what  with  sneaking  about  pre 
tending  to  be  something  that  one  is  not,  trying  to 
fool  the  fish  into  thinking  one  thing  when  just  the 
reverse  is  true,  and  in  general  behaving  in  an  under 
handed  and  tricky  manner  throughout  the  day. 

The  very  first  and  evidently  the  most  important 
exhortation  in  the  book  is,  "  Whatever  you  do, 
keep  out  of  sight  of  the  fish."  Is  that  open  and 
above-board?  Is  it  honorable? 

"  Trout  invariably  lie  in  running  water  with  their 
noses  pointed  against  the  current,  and  therefore 
whatever  general  chance  of  concealment  there  may 
be  rests  in  fishing  from  behind  them.  The  moral 
is  that  the  brook-angler  must  both  walk  and  fish 
upstream." 

[257] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

It  seems  as  if  a  lot  of  trouble  might  be  saved 
the  fisherman,  in  case  he  really  didn't  want  to  walk 
upstream  but  had  to  get  to  some  point  downstream 
before  6  o'clock,  to  adopt  some  disguise  which 
would  deceive  the  fish  into  thinking  that  he  had 
no  intention  of  catching  them  anyway.  A  pair  of 
blue  glasses  and  a  cane  would  give  the  effect  of 
the  wearer  being  blind  and  harmless,  and  could  be 
thrown  aside  very  quickly  when  the  time  came  to 
show  one's  self  in  one's  true  colors  to  the  fish.  If 
there  were  two  anglers  they  might  talk  in  loud 
tones  about  their  dislike  for  fish  in  any  form,  and 
then,  when  the  trout  were  quite  reassured  and  swim 
ming  close  to  the  bank  they  could  suddenly  be  shot 
with  a  pistol. 

But  a  little  further  on  comes  a  suggestion  for  a 
much  more  elaborate  bit  of  subterfuge. 

The  author  says  that  in  the  early  season  trout 
are  often  engaged  with  larvae  at  the  bottom  and  do 
not  show  on  the  surface.  It  is  then  a  good  plan, 
he  says,  to  sink  the  flies  well,  moving  in  short  jerks 
to  imitate  nymphs. 

You  can  see  that  imitating  a  nymph  will  call  for 
a  lot  of  rehearsing,  but  I  doubt  very  much  if  moving 
in  short  jerks  is  the  way  in  which  to  go  about  it. 
I  have  never  actually  seen  a  nymph,  though  if  I 

[258] 


TROUT-FISHING 

had  I  should  not  be  likely  to  admit  it,  and  I  can 
think  of  no  possible  way  in  which  I  could  give  an 
adequate  illusion  of  being  one  myself.  Even  the 
most  stupid  of  trout  could  easily  divine  that  I  was 
masquerading,  and  then  the  question  would  immedi 
ately  arise  in  its  mind:  "If  he  is  not  a  nymph, 
then  what  is  his  object  in  going  about  like  that  try 
ing  to  imitate  one?  He  is  up  to  no  good,  I'll  be 
bound." 

And  crash!  away  would  go  the  trout  before  I 
could  put  my  clothes  back  on. 

There  is  an  interesting  note  on  the  care  and  feed 
ing  of  worms  on  page  67.  One  hundred  and  fifty 
worms  are  placed  in  a  tin  and  allowed  to  work 
their  way  down  into  packed  moss. 

"  A  little  fresh  milk  poured  in  occasionally  is 
sufficient  food,"  writes  Mr.  Garrow-Green,  in  the 
style  of  Dr.  Holt.  "  So  disposed,  the  worms  soon 
become  bright,  lively  and  tough." 

It  is  easy  to  understand  why  one  should  want 
to  have  bright  worms,  so  long  as  they  don't  know 
that  they  are  bright  and  try  to  show  off  before 
company,  but  why  deliberately  set  out  to  make 
them  tough?  Good  manners  they  may  not  be  ex 
pected  to  acquire,  but  a  worm  with  a  cultivated 
vulgarity  sounds  intolerable.  Imagine  150  very 

[359] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

tough   worms   all   crowded    together   in   one   tin! 
"  Canaille  "  is  the  only  word  to  describe  it. 

I  suppose  that  it  is  my  ignorance  of  fishing  par 
lance  which  makes  the  following  sentence  a  bit 
hazy: 

"  Much  has  been  written  about  bringing  a  fish 
downstream  to  help  drown  it,  as  no  doubt  it  does; 
still,  this  is  often  impracticable." 

I  can  think  of  nothing  more  impracticable  than 
trying  to  drown  a  fish  under  any  conditions, 
upstream  or  down,  but  I  suppose  that  Mr.  Gar- 
row-Green  knows  what  he  is  talking  about. 

And  in  at  least  one  of  his  passages  I  follow  him 
perfectly.  In  speaking  of  the  time  of  day  for  fly 
fishing  in  the  spring  he  says: 

"  i  Carpe  diem '  is  a  good  watchword  when  trout 
are  in  the  humor."  At  least,  I  know  a  good  pun 
when  I  see  one. 


[260] 


LII 
"SCOUTING   FOR    GIRLS" 

<c  QCOUTING  for  Girls'7  is  not  the  kind  of 
O  book  you  think  it  is.  The  verb  "  to  scout  " 
is  intransitive  in  this  case.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
instead  of  being  a  volume  of  advice  to  men  on  how 
to  get  along  with  girls,  it  is  full  of  advice  to  girls 
on  how  to  get  along  without  men,  that  is,  within 
reason,  of  course. 

It  is  issued  by  the  Girl  Scouts  and  is  very  subtle 
anti-man  propaganda.  I  can't  find  that  men  are 
mentioned  anywhere  in  the  book.  It  is  given  over 
entirely  to  telling  girls  how  to  chop  down  trees, 
tie  knots  in  ropes,  and  things  like  that.  Now,  as 
a  man,  I  am  very  jealous  of  my  man's  prerogative 
of  chopping  down  trees  and  tying  knots  in  ropes, 
and  I  resent  the  teaching  of  young  girls  to  usurp 
my  province  in  these  matters.  Any  young  girl  who 
has  taken  one  lesson  in  knot-tying  will  be  able  to 
make  me  appear  very  silly  at  it.  After  two  lessons 
she  could  tie  me  hand  and  foot  to  a  tree  and  go 
away  with  my  watch  and  commutation  ticket.  And 
then  I  would  look  fine,  wouldn't  I?  Small  wonder 
[261] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

to  me  that  I  hail  the  Girl  Scout  movement  as  a 
menace  and  urge  its  being  nipped  in  the  bud  as  you 
would  nip  a  viper  in  the  bud.  I  would  not  be  sur 
prised  if  there  were  Russian  Soviet  money  back  of 
it  somewhere. 

A  companion  volume  to  "  Scouting  for  Girls  "  is 
"  Campward,  Ho!  "a  manual  for  Girl  Scout  camps. 
The  keynote  is  sounded  on  the  first  page  by  a 
quotation  from  Chaucer,  beginning: 

"  When  that  Aprille  with  his  schowres 

swoote 
The  drought  of  March  hath  perced  to  the 

roote, 

And  bathus  every  veyne  in  swich  licour, 
Of  which  vertue  engendred  is  the  flour" 

One  can  almost  hear  the  girls  singing  that  of  an 
evening  as  they  sit  around  the  camp-fire  tying  knots 
in  ropes.  It  is  really  an  ideal  camping  song,  be 
cause  even  the  littlest  girls  can  sing  the  words  with 
out  understanding  what  they  mean. 

But  it  really  lacks  the  lilt  of  the  "  Marching 
Song  "  printed  further  on  in  the  book.  This  is  to 
be  sung  to  the  tune  of  "  Where  Do  We  Go  From 
Here,  Boys?  "  Bear  this  in  mind  while  humming 
it  to  yourself: 

[262] 


"  SCOUTING  FOR  GIRLS  " 

MARCHING   SONG 

Where  do  we  go  from  here,  girls,  where  do 

we  go  from  here? 
Anywhere    (our   Captain  *)    leads   we'll 

follow,  never  fear. 
The  world  is  full  of  dandy  girls,  but  wait 

till  we  appear  — 

Then! 
Girl  Scouts,  Girl  Scouts,  give  us  a  hearty 

cheer! 

*  Supply  Captain's  name. 

A  very  stirring  marching  song,  without  doubt, 
but  what  would  they  do  if  the  leader's  name 
happened  to  be  something  like  Mary  Louise  Aber- 
crombie  or  Elizabeth  Van  Der  Water?  They  just 
couldn't  have  a  Captain  with  such  a  long  name, 
that's  all.  And  there  you  have  unfair  discrimina 
tion  creeping  into  your  camp  right  at  the  start. 

In  "  Scouting  for  Girls  "  there  is  some  useful 
information  concerning  smoke  signals.  In  case  you 
are  lost,  or  want  to  communicate  with  your  friends 
who  are  beyond  shouting  distance,  it  is  much 
quicker  than  telephoning  to  build  a  clear,  hot  fire 
and  cover  it  with  green  stuff  or  rotten  wood  so  that 

[263] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

it  will  send  up  a  solid  column  of  black  smoke.  By 
spreading  and  lifting  a  blanket  over  this  smudge 
the  column  can  be  cut  up  into  pieces,  long  or  short 
(this  is  the  way  it  explains  it  in  the  book,  but  it 
doesn't  sound  plausible  to  me),  and  by  a  precon 
certed  code  these  can  be  made  to  convey  tidings. 

For  instance,  one  steady  smoke  means  "  Here 
is  camp." 

Two  steady  smokes  mean  "  I  am  lost.  Come 
and  help  me." 

Three  smokes  in  a  row  mean  "  Good  news!  " 

I  suppose  that  the  Pollyanna  of  the  camping 
party  is  constantly  sending  up  three  smokes  in  a 
row  on  the  slightest  provocation,  and  then  when 
the  rest  of  the  outfit  have  raced  across  country  for 
miles  to  find  out  what  the  good  news  is  she  probably 
shows  them,  with  great  enthusiasm,  that  some 
fringed  gentians  are  already  in  blossom  or  that  the 
flicker's  eggs  have  hatched.  Unfortunately,  there  is 
no  smoke  code  given  for  snappy  replies,  but  in  the 
next  paragraph  it  tells  how  to  carry  on  a  conversa 
tion  with  pistol  shots.  One  of  these  would  serve 
the  purpose  for  repartee. 


[264] 


LIII 
HOW   TO   SELL    GOODS 

THE  Retail  Merchants'  Association  ought  to 
buy  up  all  the  copies  of  "  Elements  of  Retail 
Salesmanship,"  by  Paul  Westley  Ivey  (Macmillan), 
and  not  let  a  single  one  get  into  the  hands  of  a 
customer,  for  once  the  buying  public  reads  what  is 
written  there  the  game  is  up.  It  tells  all  about  how 
to  sell  goods  to  people,  how  to  appeal  to  their  weak 
nesses,  how  to  exert  subtle  influences  which  will  win 
them  over  in  spite  of  themselves.  Houdini  might 
as  well  issue  a  pamphlet  giving  in  detail  his  methods 
of  escape  as  for  the  merchants  of  this  country  to 
let  this  book  remain  in  circulation. 

The  art  of  salesmanship  is  founded,  according  to 
Mr.  Ivey,  on,  first,  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the 
goods  which  are  to  be  sold,  and  second,  a  knowl 
edge  of  the  customer.  By  knowing  the  customer 
you  know  what  line  of  argument  will  most  appeal 
to  him.  There  are  several  lines  in  popular  use. 
First  is  the  appeal  to  the  instinct  of  self-preserva 
tion —  i.e.,  social  self-preservation.  The  customer 
is  made  to  feel  that  in  order  to  preserve  her  social 

[265] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

standing  she  must  buy  the  article  in  question.  "  She 
must  be  made  to  feel  what  a  disparaged  social  self 
would  mean  to  her  mental  comfort." 

It  is  reassuring  to  know  that  it  is  a  recognized 
ruse  on  the  part  of  the  salesman  to  intimate  that 
unless  you  buy  a  particular  article  you  will  have 
to  totter  through  life  branded  as  the  arch-piker. 
I  have  always  taken  this  attitude  of  the  clerks 
perfectly  seriously.  In  fact,  I  have  worried  quite 
a  bit  about  it. 

In  the  store  where  I  am  allowed  to  buy  my  clothes 
it  is  quite  the  thing  among  the  salesmen  to  see  which 
one  of  them  can  degrade  me  most.  They  intimate 
that,  while  they  have  no  legal  means  of  refusing 
to  sell  their  goods  to  me,  it  really  would  be  much 
more  in  keeping  with  things  if  I  were  to  take  the 
few  pennies  that  I  have  at  my  disposal  and  run 
around  the  corner  to  some  little  haberdashery  for 
my  shirts  and  ties.  Every  time  I  come  out  from 
that  store  I  feel  like  Ethel  Barrymore  in  "  Declas- 
see."  Much  worse,  in  fact,  for  I  haven't  any 
good  looks  to  fall  back  upon. 

But  now  that  I  know  the  clerks  are  simply  acting 
all  that  scorn  in  an  attempt  to  appeal  to  my  in 
stinct  for  the  preservation  of  my  social  self,  I  can 
face  them  without  flinching.  When  that  pompous 
[266] 


They  intimate  that  I   had   better  take  my   few  pennies  and 
run  'round  the  corner  to  some  little  haberdashery. 


HOW  TO  SELL  GOODS 

old  boy  with  the  sandy  mustache  who  has  always 
looked  upon  me  as  a  member  of  the  degenerate  Juke 
family  tries  to  tell  me  that  if  I  don't  take  the 
five-dollar  cravat  he  won't  be  responsible  for  the 
way  in  which  decent  people  will  receive  me  when 
I  go  out  on  the  street,  I  will  reach  across  the  coun 
ter  and  playfully  pull  his  own  necktie  out  from 
his  waistcoat  and  scream,  "  I  know  you,  you  old 
rascal !  You  got  that  stuff  from  page  68  of  '  Ele 
ments  of  Retail  Salesmanship'  (Macmillan)." 

Other  traits  which  a  salesperson  may  appeal  to 
in  the  customer  are:  Vanity,  parental  pride,  greed, 
imitation,  curiosity  and  selfishness.  One  really 
gets  in  touch  with  a  lot  of  nice  people  in  this  work 
and  can  bring  out  the  very  best  that  is  in  them. 

Customers  are  divided  into  groups  indicative  of 
temperament.  There  is  first  the  Impulsive  or 
Nervous  Customer.  She  is  easily  recognized  be 
cause  she  walks  into  the  store  in  "  a  quick,  some 
times  jerky  manner.  Her  eyes  are  keen-looking; 
her  expression  is  intense,  oftentimes  appearing 
strained."  She  must  be  approached  promptly,  ac 
cording  to  the  book,  and  what  she  desires  must  be 
quickly  ascertained.  Since  these  are  the  rules  for 
selling  to  people  who  enter  the  store  in  this  manner, 
it  might  be  well,  no  matter  how  lethargic  you  may 

[267] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

be  by  nature,  to  assume  the  appearance  of  the  Im 
pulsive  or  Nervous  Customer  as  soon  as  you  enter 
the  store,  adopting  a  quick,  even  jerky  manner  and 
making  your  eyes  as  keen-looking  as  possible,  with 
an  intense  expression,  oftentimes  appearing  strained. 
Then  the  clerk  will  size  you  up  as  type  No.  i  and 
will  approach  you  promptly.  After  she  has  quickly 
filled  your  order  you  may  drop  the  impulsive  pose 
and  assume  your  natural,  slow  manner  again,  where 
upon  the  clerk  will  doubtless  be  highly  amused  at 
having  been  so  cleverly  fooled  into  giving  quick 
service. 

The  opposite  type  is  known  as  the  Deliberate 
Customer.  She  walks  slowly  and  in  a  dignified 
manner.  Her  facial  expression  is  calm  and  poised. 
"  Gestures  are  uncommon,  but  if  existing  tend  to 
be  slow  and  inconspicuous."  She  can  wait. 

Then  there  is  the  Vacillating  or  Indecisive  Cus 
tomer,  the  Confident  or  Decisive  Customer  (this 
one  should  be  treated  with  subtle  flattery  and  agree 
ment  with  all  her  views),  the  Talkative  or  Friendly 
Customer,  and  the  Silent  or  Indifferent  one.  All 
these  have  their  little  weaknesses,  and  the  perfect 
salesperson  will  learn  to  know  these  and  play  to 
them. 

There  seems  to  be  only  one  thing  left  for  the 
[268] 


HOW  TO  SELL  GOODS 

customer  to  do  in  order  to  meet  this  concerted 
attack  upon  his  personality.  That  is,  to  hire  some 
expert  like  Mr.  Ivey  to  study  the  different  types  of 
sales  men  and  women  and  formulate  methods  of 
meeting  their  offensive.  Thus,  if  I  am  of  the  type 
designated  as  the  Vacillating  or  Indecisive  Cus 
tomer,  I  ought  to  know  what  to  do  when  confronted 
by  a  salesman  of  the  Aristocratic,  Scornful  type,  so 
that  I  may  not  be  bulldozed  into  buying  something 
I  do  not  want. 

If  I  could  only  find  such  a  book  of  instructions 
I  would  go  tomorrow  and  order  a  black  cotton 
engineer's  shirt  from  that  sandy-mustached  sales 
man  and  bawl  him  out  if  he  raised  his  eyebrows. 
But  not  having  the  book,  I  shall  go  in  and,  without 
a  murmur,  buy  a  $3  silk  shirt  for  $18  and  slink  out 
feeling  that  if  I  had  been  any  kind  of  sport  at  all 
I  would  also  have  bought  that  cork  helmet  in  the 
showcase. 


[269] 


LIV 
"YOU!  " 

IN  the  window  of  the  grocery  store  to  which  I 
used  to  be  sent  after  a  pound  of  Mocha  and 
Java  mixed  and  a  dozen  of  your  best  oranges,  there 
was  a  cardboard  figure  of  a  clerk  in  a  white  coat 
pointing  his  finger  at  the  passers-by.  As  I  re 
member,  he  was  accusing  you  of  not  taking  home 
a  bottle  of  Moxie,  and  pretty  guilty  it  made  you 
feel  too. 

This  man  was,  I  believe,  the  pioneer  in  what  has 
since  become  a  great  literary  movement.  He 
founded  the  "You,  Mr.  Business-Man!  "  school  of 
direct  appeal.  It  is  strictly  an  advertising  property 
and  has  long  been  used  to  sell  merchandise  to  people 
who  never  can  resist  the  flattery  of  being  addressed 
personally.  When  used  as  an  advertisement  it  is 
usually  accompanied  by  an  illustration  built  along 
the  lines  of  the  pioneer  grocery-clerk,  pointing  a 
virile  finger  at  you  from  the  page  of  the  magazine, 
and  putting  the  whole  thing  on  a  personal  basis  by 
addressing  you  as  "  You,  Mr.  Rider-in-the-Open- 

[270] 


"YOU!  " 

Cars!  "  or  "  You,  Mr.  Wearer-of-i4j-Shirts!  "  The 
appeal  is  instantaneous. 

In  straight  reading-matter,  bound  in  book  form 
and  sold  as  literature,  this  Moxie  talk  becomes  a 
volume  of  inspirational  sermonizing,  and  instead  of 
selling  cooling  drinks  or  warming  applications,  it 
throws  dynamic  paragraph  after  dynamic  paragraph 
into  the  fight  for  efficiency,  concentration,  self- 
confidence  and  personality  on  the  part  of  our  body 
politic.  A  homely  virtue  such  as  was  taught  us  at 
our  mother's  knee  (or  across  our  mother's  knees) 
at  the  age  of  four,  in  a  dozen  or  so  simple  words, 
is  taken  and  blown  up  into  a  book  in  which  it  is 
stated  very  impressively  in  a  series  of  short,  snappy 
sentences,  all  saying  the  same  thing. 

Such  a  book  is  called,  for  instance  "  You,"  writ 
ten  by  Irving  R.  Allen. 

"You"  takes  275  pages  to  divulge  a  secret  of 
success.  It  would  not  be  fair  to  Mr.  Allen  to  give 
it  away  here  after  he  has  spent  so  much  time  con 
cealing  it.  But  it  might  be  possible  to  give  some 
idea  of  the  importance  of  Mr.  Allen's  discovery  by 
stating  one  of  my  own,  somewhat  in  the  manner  in 
which  he  has  stated  his.  I  will  give  my  little  con 
tribution  to  the  world's  inspiration  the  title  of 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

HEY,    YOU! 

You  and  I  are  alone. 

No,  don't  try  to  get  away.  That  door  is  locked. 
I  won't  hurt  you  —  much. 

What  I  want  to  do  is  make  you  see  yourself. 
I  want  you,  when  you  put  down  this  book,  to  say, 
"  I  know  myself!  "  I  want  you  to  be  able  to  look 
at  yourself  in  the  mirror  and  say:  "  Why,  certainly 
I  remember  you,  Mr.  Addington  Simms  of  Seattle, 
you  old  Rotary  Club  dog!  How's  your  merger?  " 

And  the  only  way  that  you  can  ever  be  able  to 
do  this  is  to  read  this  book  through. 

Then  read  it  through  again. 

Then  read  it  through  again. 

Then  ring  Dougherty's  bell  and  ask  for  "  Ches 
ter." 

Now  let's  get  down  to  business. 

I  knew  a  man  once  who  had  made  a  million 
dollars.  If  he  hadn't  been  arrested  he  would  have 
made  another  million. 

Do  you  see  what  I  mean? 

If  not,  go  back  and  read  that  over  a  second 
time.  It's  worth  it.  I  wrote  it  for  you  to  read. 
You,  do  you  hear  me?  You! 

If  you  want  to  know  the  secret  of  this  man's 
success,  of  the  success  of  hundreds  of  other  men 

[272] 


"YOU!  " 

just  like  him,  if  you  want  to  make  his  success  your 
success,  you  must  first  learn  the  rule. 

What  is  this  rule?  you  may  ask. 

Go  ahead  and  ask  it. 

Very  well,  since  you  ask. 

It  is  a  rule  which  has  kept  J.  P.  Morgan  what  he 
is.  It  is  a  rule  which  gives  John  D.  Rockefeller 
the  right  to  be  known  as  the  Baptist  man  alive. 
It  is  a  rule  which  is  responsible  for  the  continued 
existence  of  every  successful  man  of  today. 

And  now  I  am  going  to  tell  it  to  you. 

You,  the  you  that  you  know,  the  real  you,  are 
going  to  learn  the  secret. 

Can  you  bear  it? 

Here  it  is: 

You  can't  win  if  you  breathe  under  water. 

Read  that  again. 

Read  it  backward. 

It  may  sound  simple  to  you  now.  You  may  say 
to  yourself,  "What  do  you  take  me  for,  a  baby 
boy?  " 

Well,  you  paid  good  money  for  this  book,  didn't 
you? 


[273] 


LV 
THE   CATALOGUE   SCHOOL 

WITHOUT  wishing  in  the  least  to  detract 
from  the  praise  due  to  Sinclair  Lewis  for 
the  remarkable  accuracy  with  which  he  reports  de 
tails  in  his  "  Main  Street,"  it  is  interesting  to  specu 
late  on  how  other  books  might  have  read  had  their 
authors  had  Mr.  Lewis's  flair  for  minutiae  and  their 
publishers  enough  paper  to  print  the  result. 

For  instance,  Carol  Kennicott,  the  heroine,  when 
ever  she  is  overtaken  by  an  emotional  scene,  is 
given  to  looking  out  at  the  nearest  window  to  hide 
her  feelings,  whereupon  the  author  goes  to  great 
lengths  to  describe  just  exactly  what  came  within 
her  range  of  vision.  Nothing  escapes  him,  even  to 
shreds  of  excelsior  lying  on  the  ground  in  back  of 
Howland  &  Gould's  grocery  store. 

Let  us  suppose  that  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe  had 
been  endowed  with  Mr.  Lewis's  gift  for  reporting 
and  had  indulged  herself  in  it  to  the  extent  of  the 
following  in  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin:  " 

"  Slowly  Simon  Legree  raised  his  whip-arm  to 

[274] 


THE  CATALOGUE  SCHOOL 

strike  the  prostrate  body  of  the  old  negro.  As  he 
did  so  his  eye  wandered  across  the  plantation  to  the 
slaves'  quarters  which  crouched  blistering  in  the 
sun.  Cowed  as  they  were,  as  only  ramshackle  build 
ings  can  be  cowed,  they  presented  their  gray 
boards,  each  eaten  with  four  or  five  knot-holes,  to 
the  elements  in  abject  submission.  The  door  of  one 
hung  loose  by  a  rust-encased  hinge,  of  which  only 
one  screw  remained  on  duty,  and  that  by  sheer  will 
power  of  two  or  three  threads.  Legree  could  not 
quite  make  out  how  many  threads  there  were  on 
the  screw,  but  he  guessed,  and  Simon  Legree's  guess 
was  nearly  always  right.  On  the  ground  at  the 
threshold  lay  a  banjo  G  string,  curled  like  a  blond 
snake  ready  to  strike  at  the  reddish,  brown  inner 
husk  of  a  nut  of  some  sort  which  was  blowing  about 
within  reach.  There  were  also  several  crumbs  of 
corn-pone,  well-done,  a  shred  of  tobacco  which  had 
fallen  from  the  pipe  of  some  negro  slave  before  the 
fire  had  consumed  more  than  its  very  tip,  an  old 
shoe  which  had,  Legree  noticed  by  the  maker's 
name,  been  bought  in  Boston  in  its  palmier  days, 
doubtless  by  a  Yankee  cousin  of  one  of  Uncle 
Tom's  former  owners,  and  an  indiscriminate  pile  of 
old  second  editions  of  a  Richmond  newspaper, 
sweet-potato  peelings  and  seeds  of  unripe  water 
melons. 

[275] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

"Swish!  The  blow  descended  on  the  crouching 
form  of  Uncle  Tom." 

Or  Sir  Walter  Scott: 

"  Sadly  Rowena  turned  from  her  lover's  side  and 
looked  out  over  the  courtyard  of  the  castle.  Be 
neath  her  she  saw  the  cobble-stones  all  scratched 
and  marred  with  gray  bruises  from  the  horses'  hoofs, 
a  faded  purple  ribbon  dropped  from  the  mandolin 
of  a  minstrel,  three  slightly  imperfect  wassails  and 
a  trencher  with  a  nick  on  the  rim,  all  that  had  not 
been  used  of  the  wild  boar  at  last  night's  feast,  a 
peach-stone  like  a  wrinkled  almond  nestling  in  a 
sardine  tin.  Slowly  she  faced  her  knight: 

"  '  Prithee/  she  said." 

And  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  "  Uncle  Tom's 
Cabin  "  and  "  Ivanhoe  "  wouldn't  have  made  better 
reading  if  they  had  lapsed  into  the  photographic  at 
times.  Mr.  Lewis  may  overdo  it,  but  I  expect  to 
re-read  "  Main  Street "  some  day,  and  that  is  more 
encouragement  than  I  can  hold  out  to  Mrs.  Stowe 
or  Sir  Walter  Scott. 


[276] 


LVI 
"EFFECTIVE   HOUSE   ORGANS" 

TO  the  hurrying  commuter  as  he  waits  for  his 
two  cents  change  at  the  news  stand  it  looks  as 
if  all  the  periodicals  in  the  United  States  were  on 
display  there,  none  of  which  he  ever  has  quite 
time  enough  to  buy.  It  seems  incredible  that  there 
should  be  presses  enough  in  the  country  to  print 
all  the  matter  that  he  sees  hanging  from  wires,  piled 
on  the  counter  and  dangling  from  clips  over  the 
edge,  to  say  nothing  of  his  conceiving  of  there  being 
other  periodicals  in  circulation  which  he  never  even 
hears  about.  But  any  one  knowing  the  commuter 
well  enough  to  call  him  "  dearie  "  might  tell  him 
in  slightly  worn  vernacular  that  he  doesn't  know 
the  half  of  it. 

One  cannot  get  a  true  idea  of  the  amount  of  side 
line  printing  that  is  done  in  this  country  without 
reading  "  Effective  House  Organs,"  written  by 
Robert  E.  Ramsay.  The  mass  effect  of  this  book 
is  appalling.  Page  after  page  of  clear-cut  illustra 
tions  show  reproductions  of  hundreds  and  hundreds 
of  house-organ  covers  and  give  the  reader  a  hope- 

[277] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

less  sensation  of  going  down  for  the  third  time. 
Such  names  as  "  Gas  Logic,"  "  Crane-ing,"  "  Hid- 
den's  Hints,"  "The  Y.  and  E.  Idea,"  "Vim," 
"Tick  Talk"  and  "The  Smileage "  show  that 
Yankee  ingenuity  has  invaded  the  publishing  field, 
which  means  that  the  literature  of  business  is  on 
its  way  to  becoming  the  literature  of  the  land. 

For  those  who  are  so  illiterate  as  not  to  be  fa 
miliar  with  the  literature  of  business,  I  quote  a 
definition  of  the  word  "  house  organ  ": 

"  A  house  magazine  or  bulletin  to  dealers,  cus 
tomers  or  employees,  designed  to  promote  good 
will,  increase  sales,  induce  better  salesmanship  or 
develop  better  profits." 

In  spite  of  Mr.  Ramsay's  exceedingly  thorough 
treatment  of  his  subject,  there  is  one  type  of  house 
organ  to  which  he  devotes  much  too  little  space. 
This  is  the  so-called  "  employee  or  internal  house 
organ  "  and  is  designed  to  keep  the  help  happy  and 
contented  with  their  lot  and  to  spur  them  on  to 
extra  effort  in  making  it  a  banner  year  for  the 
stockholders.  The  possibilities  of  this  sort  of  house 
organ  in  the  solution  of  the  problem  of  industrial 
unrest  are  limitless. 

Publications  for  light  reading  among  employees 
are  usually  called  by  such  titles  as  "  Diblee  Do- 


"  EFFECTIVE  HOUSE  ORGANS  " 

ings/'  "  Tinkham  Topics,"  "  The  Mooney  and  Car- 
miechal  Machine  Lather "  or  "  Better  Belting 
News." 

First  of  all,  they  carry  news  notes  of  happenings 
among  the  employees,  so  that  a  real  spirit  of  co 
operation  and  team-play  may  be  fostered.  These 
news  notes  include  such  as  the  following: 

"  Eddie  Lingard  of  the  Screen  Room  force,  was 
observed  last  Saturday  evening  between  the  mystic 
hours  of  six-thirty  with  a  certain  party  from  the 
Shipping  Room,  said  party  in  a  tan  knit  sweater, 
on  their  way  to  Ollie's.  Come,  'fess  up,  Eddie!  " 

"  Everyone  is  wondering  who  the  person  is  who 
put  chocolate  peppermints  in  some  of  the  girls' 
pockets  while  they  were  hanging  in  the  Girls'  Rest 
Room  Thursday  afternoon,  it  being  so  hot  that 
they  melted  and  practically  ruined  some  of  their 
clothing.  Some  folks  have  a  funny  sense  of 
humor." 

Then  there  are  excerpts  from  speeches  made  by 
the  Rev.  Charles  Aubrey  Eaton  and  young  Mr. 
Rockefeller  or  by  the  President  and  Treasurer  of  the 
Diamond  Motor  Sales  Corporation,  saying,  in  part: 

"  The  man  who  makes  good  in  any  line  of  work 
is  the  man  who  gives  the  best  there  is  in  him.  He 
doesn't  watch  the  clock.  He  doesn't  kick  when  he 

[279] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

fails  to  get  that  raise  that  he  may  have  expected. 
He  just  digs  into  the  job  harder  and  makes  the 
dust  fly.  And  when  some  one  comes  along  waving 
a  red  flag  and  tries  to  make  him  stop  work  and 
strike  for  more  money,  he  turns  on  the  agitator  and 

says :  '  You  get  the  h out  of  here.    I  know  my 

job  better  than  you  do.  I  know  my  boss  better 
than  you  do,  and  I  know  that  he  is  going  to  give 
me  the  square  deal  just  as  soon  as  he  can  see  his 
way  clear  to  do  it.  And  in  the  mean  time  I  am 
going  to  WORK!  ' 

"  That  is  the  kind  of  man  who  makes  good." 

And  then  there  are  efficiency  contests,  with  the 
force  divided  into  teams  trying  to  see  which  one 
can  wrap  the  most  containers  or  stamp  the  largest 
number  of  covers  in  the  week.  The  winning  team 
gets  a  felt  banner  and  their  names  are  printed  in 
full  in  that  week's  issue  of  "  Pep "  or  "  Nosey 
News." 

And  biographies  of  employees  who  have  been  with 
the  company  for  more  than  fifty  years,  with  photo 
graphs,  and  a  little  notice  written  by  the  Super 
intendent  saying  that  this  will  show  the  company's 
appreciation  of  Mr.  Gomble's  loyal  and  unswerving 
allegiance  to  his  duty,  implying  that  any  one  else 
who  does  his  duty  for  fifty  years  will  also  get  his 
[280] 


"  EFFECTIVE  HOUSE  ORGANS  " 

picture    in    the    paper    and    a    notice    by    the 
Superintendent. 

It  will  easily  be  seen  how  this  sort  of  house 
organ  can  be  made  to  promote  good  feeling  and 
esprit  de  corps  among  the  help.  If  only  more  con 
cerns  could  be  prevailed  upon  to  bring  this  message 
of  weekly  or  monthly  good  cheer  to  their  em 
ployees,  who  knows  but  what  the  whole  caldron  of 
industrial  unrest  might  not  suddenly  simmer  down 
to  mere  nothingness?  It  has  been  said  that  all  that 
is  necessary  is  for  capital  and  labor  to  understand 
each  other.  Certainly  such  a  house  organ  helps 
the  employees  to  understand  their  employers. 

Perhaps  some  one  will  start  a  house  organ  edited 
by  the  employees  for  circulation  among  the  bosses, 
containing  newsy  notes  about  the  owners'  families, 
quotations  from  Karl  Marx  and  the  results  of  the 
profit-sharing  contest  between  the  various  mills  of 
the  district. 

This  would  complete  the  circle  of  under 
standing. 


LVII 
ADVICE   TO   WRITERS 

TWO  books  have  emerged  from  the  hundreds 
that  are  being  published  on  the  art  of  writing. 
One  of  them  is  "  The  Lure  of  the  Pen,"  by  Flora 
Klickmann,  and  the  other  is  "  Learning  to  Write," 
a  collection  of  Stevenson's  meditations  on  the  sub 
ject,  issued  by  Scribners.  At  first  glance  one  might 
say  that  the  betting  would  be  at  least  eight  to  one 
on  Stevenson.  But  for  real,  solid,  sensible  advice 
in  the  matter  of  writing  and  selling  stories  in  the 
modern  market,  Miss  Klickmann  romps  in  an  easy 
winner. 

It  must  be  admitted  that  John  William  Rogers 
Jr.,  who  collected  the  Stevenson  material,  warns 
the  reader  in  his  introduction  that  the  book  is  not 
intended  to  serve  as  "  a  macadamized,  mile-posted 
road  to  the  secret  of  writing,"  but  simply  as  a  help 
to  those  who  want  to  write  and  who  are  interested 
to  know  how  Stevenson  did  it.  So  we  mustn't  com 
pare  it  too  closely  with  Miss  Klickmann 's  book, 
which  is  quite  frankly  a  mile-posted  road,  with 
little  sub-headings  along  the  side  of  the  page  such 
[282] 


ADVICE  TO  WRITERS 

as  we  used  to  have  in  Fiske's  Elementary  American 
History.  But  Miss  Klickmann  will  save  the  editors 
of  the  country  a  great  deal  more  trouble  than 
Stevenson's  advice  ever  will.  She  is  the  editor  of 
an  English  magazine  herself,  and  has  suffered. 

Where  Miss  Klickmann  enumerates  the  pitfalls 
which  the  candidate  must  avoid  and  points  out 
qualities  which  every  good  piece  of  writing  should 
have,  Stevenson  writes  a  delightful  essay  on  "  The 
Profession  of  Letters  "  or  "  A  Gossip  on  Romance." 
These  essays  are  very  inspiring.  They  are  too 
inspiring.  They  make  the  reader  feel  that  he  can 
go  out  and  write  like  Stevenson.  And  then  a  lot 
of  two-cent  stamps  are  wasted  and  a  lot  more  editors 
are  cross  when  they  get  home  at  night. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  result  of  Miss  Klick- 
mann's  book  is  to  make  the  reader  who  feels  a 
writing  spell  coming  on  stop  and  give  pause.  He 
finds  enumerated  among  the  horrors  of  manuscript- 
reading  several  items  which  he  was  on  the  point 
of  injecting  into  his  own  manuscript  with  con 
siderable  pride.  He  may  decide  that  the  old  job 
in  the  shipping-room  isn't  so  bad  after  all,  with 
its  little  envelope  coming  in  regularly  every  week. 
As  a  former  member  of  the  local  manuscript- 
readers'  union,  I  will  give  one  of  three  rousing  cheers 

[283] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

for  any  good  work  that  Miss  Klickmann  may  do 
in  this  field.  One  writer  kept  very  busy  at  work 
in  the  shipping-room  every  day  is  a  victory  for 
literature.  I  used  to  have  a  job  in  a  shipping-room 
myself,  so  I  know. 

If,  for  instance,  the  subject  under  discussion  were 
that  of  learning  to  skate,  Miss  Klickmann  might 
advise  as  follows: 

1.  Don't  try  to  skate  if  your  ankles  are  weak. 

2.  Get  skates  that  fit  you.    A  skate  which  can't 
be  put  on  when  you  get  to  the  pond,  or  one  which 
drags  behind  your  foot  by  the  strap,  is  worse  than 
no  skate  at  all. 

3.  If  you  are  sure  that  you  are  ready,  get  on  your 
feet  and  skate. 

On  the  same  subject,  Scribners  might  bring  to 
light  something  that  Stevenson  had  written  to  a 
young  friend  about  to  take  his  first  lesson  in 
skating,  reading  as  follows: 

"  To  know  the  secret  of  skating  is,  indeed,  I 
have  always  thought,  the  beginning  of  winter-long 
pleasance.  It  comes  as  sweet  deliverance  from  the 
tedium  of  indoor  isolation  and  brings  exhilaration, 
now  with  a  swift  glide  to  the  right,  now  with  a 
deft  swerve  to  the  left,  now  with  a  deep  breath  of 
healthy  air,  now  with  a  long  exhalation  of  ozone, 

[284] 


ADVICE  TO  WRITERS 

which  the  lungs,  like  greedy  misers,  have  cast  aside 
after  draining  it  of  its  treasure.  But  it  is  not  health 
that  we  love  nor  exhilaration  that  we  seek,  though 
we  may  think  so;  our  design  and  our  sufficient  re 
ward  is  to  verify  our  own  existence,  say  what  you 
will. 

"And  so,  my  dear  young  friend,  I  would  say  to 
you:  Open  up  your  heart;  sing  as  you  skate;  sing 
inharmoniously  if  you  will,  but  sing!  A  man  may 
skate  with  all  the  skill  in  the  world;  he  may  glide 
forward  with  incredible  deftness  and  curve  back 
ward  with  divine  grace,  and  yet  if  he  be  not  master 
of  his  emotions  as  well  as  of  his  feet,  I  would  say 
—  and  here  Fate  steps  in  —  that  he  has  failed." 

There  is,  of  course,  plenty  of  good  advice  in  the 
Stevenson  book.  But  it  is  much  better  as  pure 
reading  matter  than  as  advice  to  the  young  idea  or 
even  the  middle-aged  idea.  It  may  have  been  all 
right  for  Stevenson  to  "  play  the  sedulous  ape  "  and 
consciously  imitate  the  style  of  Hazlitt,  Lamb, 
Montaigne  and  the  rest,  but  if  the  rest  of  us  were 
to  try  it  there  would  result  a  terrible  plague  of 
insufferably  artificial  and  affected  authors,  all  play 
ing  the  sedulous  ape  and  all  looking  the  part. 

On  the  whole,  the  Stevenson  book  makes  good 
reading  and  Miss  Klickmann  gives  good  advice. 

[285] 


LVIII 

"THE   EFFECTIVE   SPEAKING 
VOICE  " 

JOSEPH  A.  MOSHER  begins  his  book  on  "  The 
Effective  Speaking  Voice"  by  saying: 

"  Among  the  many  developments  of  the  great  war 
was  a  widespread  activity  in  public  speaking." 

Mr.  Mosher,  to  adopt  a  technical  term  of  elocu 
tion,  has  said  a  mouthful.  Whatever  else  the  war 
did  for  us,  it  raised  overnight  an  army  of  public 
speakers  among  the  civilian  population,  many  of 
whom  seem  not  yet  to  have  received  their  discharge. 
It  is  the  aim  of  Mr.  Mosher's  book  to  keep  this 
Landwehr  in  fighting  trim  and  aid  in  recruiting  its 
ranks,  possibly  against  the  next  war.  Until  every 
nation  on  earth  has  subjected  its  public  speakers 
to  a  devastating  operation  on  the  larynx  no  true 
disarmament  can  be  said  to  have  taken  place. 

In  the  first  place  there  are  exercises  which  must 
be  performed  by  the  man  who  would  have  an  effec 
tive  speaking  voice,   exercises  similar   to  Walter 
Camp's  Daily  Dozen.    You  stand  erect,  with  the 
[  286  ] 


"  THE  EFFECTIVE  SPEAKING  VOICE  " 

chest  held  moderately  high.  (Moderation  in  all 
things  is  the  best  rule  to  follow,  no  matter  what 
you  are  doing.)  Place  the  thumbs  just  above  the 
hips,  with  the  ringers  forward  over  the  waist  to 
note  the  muscular  action.  Then  you  inhale  and 
exhale  and  make  the  sound  of  "  ah  "  and  the  sound 
of  "  ah-oo-oh,"  and,  if  you  aren't  self-conscious,  you 
say  "  wah-we-wi-wa,"  slowly,  ten  or  a  dozen  times. 
"  The  student  should  stop  at  once  if  signs  of 
dizziness  appear/'  says  the  book,  but  it  does  not 
say  whether  the  symptoms  are  to  be  looked  for  in 
the  student  himself  or  in  the  rest  of  the  family. 

The  author  does  the  public  a  rather  bad  turn 
when  he  suggests  to  student  speakers  that,  under 
stress,  they  might  use  what  is  known  as  the  "  oro 
tund."  The  orotund  quality  in  public  speaking  is 
saved  for  passages  containing  grandeur  of  thought, 
when  the  orator  feels  the  need  of  a  larger,  fuller, 
more  resonant  and  sounding  voice  to  be  in  keeping 
with  the  sentiment.  Its  effect  is  somewhat  that  of 
a  chant,  and  here  is  how  you  do  it: 

The  chest  is  raised  and  tensed,  the  cavities  of  the 
mouth  and  pharynx  are  enlarged,  more  breath  is 
directed  into  the  nasal  chambers  and  the  lips  are 
opened  more  widely  to  give  free  passage  to  the  in 
creased  volume  of  voice. 

[287] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

The  effectiveness  of  the  orotund  might  be  some 
what  reduced  if  the  audience  knew  the  conscious 
mechanical  processes  which  went  to  make  it  up.  Or 
if,  in  the  Congressional  Record,  instead  of  (laughter 
and  applause)  the  vocal  technique  of  the  orator 
could  be  indicated,  how  few  would  be  the  wars  into 
which  impassioned  Senators  could  plunge  us!  For 
example,  Mr.  Thurston's  plea  for  intervention  in 
Cuba: 

"  The  time  for  action  has  come.  (Tensing  the 
chest.)  No  greater  reason  for  it  can  exist  tomorrow 
than  exists  today.  (Enlarging  the  cavities  of  the 
mouth.)  Every  hour's  delay  only  adds  another 
chapter  to  the  awful  story  of  misery  and  death. 
(Enlarging  the  cavities  of  the  pharynx.)  Only  one 
power  can  intervene  —  the  United  States  of  Amer 
ica.  (Directing  more  breath  into  the  nasal  cham 
bers.)  Ours  is  the  one  great  nation  of  the  New 
World  —  the  mother  of  republics.  (Elevating  the 
diaphragm.)  We  cannot  refuse  to  accept  this  re 
sponsibility  which  the  God  of  the  Universe  has 
placed  upon  us  as  the  one  great  power  in  the  New 
World.  We  must  act!  (Raising  the  tongue  and 
thrusting  it  forward  so  that  the  edges  of  the  blade 
are  pressed  against  the  upper  grinders.)  What 
shall  our  action  be?  (Lifting  the  voice-box  very 
high  and  the  edges  of  the  tongue  blade  against  the 
[288] 


"  THE  EFFECTIVE  SPEAKING  VOICE  " 

soft  palate,  leaving  only  a  small  central  groove  for 
the  passage  of  air.)  " 

The  aspirate  quality,  or  whisper,  is  very  effective 
when  well  handled,  and  the  book  gives  a  few  exer 
cises  for  practice's  sake.  Try  whispering  a  few  of 
them,  if  you  are  sure  that  you  are  alone  in  the 
room.  You  will  sound  very  silly  if  you  are  over 
heard. 

a.  "I  can't  tell  just  how  it  happened;  I  think 
the  beam  fell  on  me." 

b.  "  Keep  back;  wait  till  I  see  if  the  coast  is 
clear." 

c.  "  Ask  the  man  next  to  you  if  he'll  let  me  see 
his  programme." 

d.  "Hark!    What  was  that?  " 

e.  "  It's  too  steep  —  he'll  never  make  it  —  oh, 
this  is  terrible!  " 

For  the  cheery  evening's  reading,  if  you  happen 
to  be  feeling  low  in  your  mind,  let  me  recommend 
that  section  of  "The  Effective  Speaking  Voice" 
which  deals  with  "  the  Subdued  Range."  The  se 
lections  for  the  practice-reading  include  the  follow 
ing  well-known  nuggets  in  lighter  vein: 

"  The  Wounded  Soldier,"  "  The  Death  of  Molly 
Cass,"  "  The  Little  Cripple's  Garden,"  "  The  Burial 

[289] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

of  Little  Nell,"  "  The  Light  of  Other  Days,"  "  The 
Baby  is  Dead,"  "  King  David  Mourns  for  Absa 
lom,"  and  "  The  Days  That  Are  No  More." 

After  all,  a  good  laugh  never  does  anyone  any 
harm. 


[290] 


LIX 

THOSE   DANGEROUSLY   DYNAMIC 
BRITISH   GIRLS 

IT  is  difficult  to  get  into  Rose  Macaulay's  "  Dan 
gerous  Ages  "  once  you  discover  that  it  is  going 
to  be  about  another  one  of  those  offensively  healthy 
English  families.  Ever  since  "  Mr.  Britling  "  we 
have  been  deluged  with  accounts  from  overseas  of 
whole  droves  of  British  brothers  and  sisters,  mothers 
and  fathers,  grandfathers  and  grandmothers,  who 
all  get  out  at  six  in  the  morning  and  play  hockey 
all  over  the  place.  Each  has  some  strange,  intimate 
name  like  "  Bim,"  or  "  Pleda,"  or  "  Goots,"  and 
you  can  never  tell  which  are  the  brothers  and  which 
the  sisters  until  they  begin  to  have  children  along  in 
the  tenth  or  eleventh  chapter. 

In  "  Dangerous  Ages  "  they  swim.  Dozens  of 
them,  all  in  the  same  family,  go  splashing  in  at 
once  and  persist  in  calling  out  health  slogans  to  one 
another  across  the  waves.  There  are  Neville  and 
Rodney  and  Gerda  and  Kay,  and  one  or  two  very 
old  ladies  whose  relationship  to  the  rest  of  the  clan 
is  never  very  definitely  established.  Grandma,  for 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

some  reason  or  other,  doesn't  go  in  swimming  that 
day,  doubtless  because  she  had  already  been  in  be 
fore  breakfast  and  her  suit  wasn't  dry. 

These  dynamic  British  girls  are  always  full  of 
ruddy  health  and  current  information.  They  go 
about  kidding  each  other  on  the  second  reading  of 
the  Home  Rule  bill  or  fooling  in  their  girlish  way 
about  the  chances  of  the  Labor  candidate  in  the 
coming  Duncastershire  elections.  It  is  getting  so 
that  no  novel  of  British  life  will  be  complete  without 
somewhere  in  its  pages  a  scene  like  the  following: 

"  A  chance  visitor  at  The  Beetles  some  autumn 
morning  along  about  five  o'clock  might  have  been 
surprised  to  see  a  trail  of  dog-trotting  figures  wind 
ing  their  way  heatedly  across  the  meadow.  No 
one  but  a  chance  visitor  would  be  surprised,  how 
ever,  for  it  was  well  known  to  invited  guests  that 
the  entire  Willetts  family  ran  cross-country  down 
to  the  outskirts  of  London  and  back  every  morning 
before  breakfast,  a  matter  of  fourteen  miles.  In 
the  lead  was,  of  course,  Dungeon  in  running  cos 
tume,  followed  closely  by  the  flaxen-haired  Mid 
and  snub-nosed  Boola,  then  Arlix  and  Linny,  striv 
ing  valiantly  for  fourth  place  but  not  reckoning  on 
the  fleet-footed  Meeda,  who  was  no  longer  content 
to  hobble  in  the  vanguard  with  Grandpa  Willetts 
and  Grandpa's  old  mother,  who  still  insisted  on 
[292  ] 


"Why  didn't  you  tell  us  that  you  were  reading  a  paper  on 
birth  control?" 


THOSE  DYNAMIC  BRITISH  GIRLS 

cross-country  running,  although  she  had  long  since 
been  put  on  the  retired  list  at  the  Club. 

" '  Oh,  Linny/  called  out  Dungeon  over  her 
shoulder,  'you  young  minx!  Why  didn't  you  tell 
us  that  you  were  reading  a  paper  on  Birth  Control 
at  the  next  meeting  of  the  Spiddix?  Twiller  just  told 
me  today.  It's  too  ripping  of  you!  " 

"  '  Silly  goose,'  panted  Linny,  stumbling  over  a 
hedgerow,  '  how  about  what  the  vicar  said  the  other 
night  about  your  inferiority  complex?  It  was  toppo, 
and  you  know  it.' 

" '  It  won't  be  long  now  before  we'll  have 
disenfranchisement  through,  anyway,'  muttered 
Grandpa  Willetts,  crashing  down  into  a  stone 
quarry,  at  which  exhibition  of  reaction  a  loud  chorus 
of  laughter  went  up  from  the  entire  family,  who  by 
this  time  had  reached  Nogroton  and  were  bursting 
with  health." 


[293] 


LX 
BOOKS  AND  OTHER  THINGS 

FOR  those  to  whom  the  purple-and-gold  filigreed 
covers  of  Florence  L.  Barclay's  books  bring  a 
stirring  of  the  sap  and  a  fluttering  of  the  susceptible 
heart,  "  Returned  Empty  "  comes  as  a  languorous 
relief  from  the  stolid  realism  of  most  present-day 
writing.  One  reads  it  and  swoons.  And  on  opening 
one's  eyes  again,  one  hears  old  family  retainers  mur 
muring  in  soft  retentive  accents:  "  Here,  sip  some 
of  this,  my  lord;  'twill  bring  the  roses  back  to 
those  cheeks  and  the  strength  to  those  poor  limbs." 
It's  elegant,  that's  all  there  is  to  it,  elegant. 

"Returned  Empty  "  was  the  inscription  on  the 
wrappings  which  enfolded  the  tiny  but  aristocratic 
form  of  a  man-child  left  on  the  steps  of  the  Found 
lings  Institution  one  moonless  October  night.  There 
was  also  some  reference  to  Luke,  xii.,  6,  which  in 
return  refers  to  five  sparrows  sold  for  two  farthings. 
What  more  natural,  then,  than  for  the  matron  to 
name  the  little  one  Luke  Sparrow? 
[294] 


BOOKS  AND  OTHER  THINGS 

Luke  was  an  odd  boy  but  refined.  So  odd  that 
he  used  to  go  about  looking  in  at  people's  windows 
when  they  forgot  to  pull  down  the  shades,  and  so 
refined  that  he  never  wished  to  be  inside  with  them. 

But  one  night,  when  he  was  thirty  years  old,  he 
looked  in  at  the  window  of  a  very  refined  and  ele 
gant  mansion  and  saw  a  woman.  In  the  simple 
words  of  the  author,  "  in  court  or  cottage  alike  she 
would  be  queen."  That's  the  kind  of  woman  she 
was. 

And  what  do  you  think?  She  saw  Luke  looking 
in.  Not  only  saw  him  but  came  over  to  the  window 
and  told  him  that  she  had  been  expecting  him.  Well, 
you  could  have  knocked  Luke  over  with  a  feather. 
However,  he  allowed  himself  to  be  ushered  in  by 
the  butler  (everything  in  the  house  was  elegant 
like  that)  and  up  to  a  room  where  he  found  evening 
clothes,  bath-salts  and  grand  things  of  that  nature. 
On  passing  a  box  of  books  which  stood  in  the  hall 
he  read  the  name  on  it  "  before  he  realized  what 
he  was  doing."  Of  course  the  minute  he  thought 
what  an  unrefined  thing  it  was  to  do  he  stopped, 
but  it  was  too  late.  He  had  already  seen  that  his 
hostess's  name  was  "  Lady  Tintagel." 

When  later  he  met  her  down  in  the  luxurious 
dining-room  she  was  just  as  refined  as  ever.  And 
so  was  he.  They  both  were  so  refined  that  she  had 

[295] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

to  tell  the  butler  to  "  serve  the  fruit  in  the  Oak 
Room,  Thomas." 

Once  in  the  Oak  Room  she  told  him  her  strange 
tale.  It  seemed  that  he  was  her  husband.  He  didn't 
remember  it,  but  he  was.  He  had  been  drowned 
some  years  before  and  she  had  wished  so  hard  that 
he  might  come  back  to  life  that  finally  he 
had  been  born  again  in  the  body  of  Luke  Sparrow. 
It's  funny  how  things  work  out  like  that  sometimes. 

But  Luke,  who,  as  has  been  said  before,  was 
an  odd  boy,  took  it  very  hard  and  said  that  he  didn't 
want  to  be  brought  back  to  life.  Not  even  when 
she  told  him  that  his  name  was  now  Sir  Nigel  Guido 
Cadross  Tintagel,  Bart.  He  became  very  cross  and 
said  that  he  was  going  out  and  drown  himself  all 
over  again,  just  to  show  her  that  she  shouldn't  have 
gone  meddling  with  his  spirit  life.  He  was  too  re 
fined  to  say  so,  but  when  you  consider  that  he  was 
just  thirty,  and  his  wife,  owing  to  the  difference  in 
time  between  the  spirit  world  and  this,  had  gone  on 
growing  old  until  she  was  now  pushing  sixty,  he  had 
a  certain  amount  of  justice  on  his  side.  But  of 
course  she  was  Lady  Tintagel,  and  all  the  lovers  of 
Florence  Barclay  will  understand  that  that  is  some 
thing. 

So,  after  reciting  Tennyson's  "  Crossing  the  Bar," 
[296] 


BOOKS  AND  OTHER  THINGS 

at  her  request  (credit  is  given  in  the  front  of  the 
book  for  the  use  of  this  poem,  and  only  rightly  too, 
for  without  it  the  story  could  never  have  been  writ 
ten),  he  goes  out  into  the  ocean.  But  there  —  we 
mustn't  give  too  much  of  the  plot  away.  All  that 
one  need  know  is  that  Luke  or  Sir  Nigel,  as  you 
wish  (and  what  reader  of  Florence  Barclay  wouldn't 
prefer  Sir  Nigel?),  was  so  cultured  that  he  said, 
"  Nobody  in  the  whole  world  knows  it,  save  you  and 
I,"  and  referred  to  "  flotsam  and  jetson  "  as  he 
was  swimming  out  into  the  path  of  the  rising  sun. 
"  Jetsam  ;>  is  such  an  ugly  word. 

It  is  only  fitting  that  on  his  tombstone  Lady  Tin- 
tagel  should  have  had  inscribed  an  impressive  and 
high-sounding  misquotation  from  the  Bible. 


[297] 


LXI 
"MEASURE   YOUR   MIND" 

MEASURE  Your  Mind"  by  M.  R.  Traube 
and  Frank  Parker  Stockbridge,  is  apt 
to  be  a  very  discouraging  book  if  you  have  any 
doubt  at  all  about  your  own  mental  capacity.  From 
a  hasty  glance  through  the  various  tests  I  figure  it 
out  that  I  would  be  classified  in  Group  B,  indicating 
"  Low  Average  Ability/'  reserved  usually  for  those 
just  learning  to  speak  the  English  language  and 
preparing  for  a  career  of  holding  a  spike  while 
another  man  hits  it.  If  they  ever  adopt  the  "  menti- 
meter  tests  "  on  this  journal  I  shall  last  just  about 
forty-five  minutes. 

And  the  trouble  is  that  each  test  starts  off  so 
easily.  You  begin  to  think  that  you  are  so  good 
that  no  one  has  ever  appreciated  you.  There  is  for 
instance,  a  series  of  twenty- four  pictures  (very 
badly  drawn  too,  Mr.  Frank  Parker  Stockbridge. 
You  think  you  are  so  smart,  picking  flaws  with 
people's  intelligence.  If  I  couldn't  draw  a  better 
head  than  the  one  on  page  131  I  would  throw  up 
the  whole  business).  At  any  rate,  in  each  one  of 

[298] 


"  MEASURE  YOUR  MIND  " 

these  pictures  there  is  something  wrong  (wholly 
apart  from  the  drawing).  You  are  supposed  to 
pick  out  the  incongruous  feature,  and  you  have  180 
seconds  in  which  to  tear  the  twenty-four  pictures 
to  pieces. 

The  first  one  is  easy.  The  rabbit  has  one  human 
ear.  In  the  second  one  the  woman's  eye  is  in  her 
hair.  Pretty  soft,  you  say  to  yourself.  In  the 
third  the  bird  has  three  legs.  It  looks  like  a  cinch. 
Following  in  quick  succession  come  a  man  with  his 
mouth  in  his  forehead,  a  horse  with  cow's  horns,  a 
mouse  with  rabbit's  ears,  etc.  You  will  have  time 
for  a  handspring  before  your  180  seconds  are  up. 

But  then  they  get  tricky.  There  is  a  post-card 
with  a  stamp  upside  down.  Well,  what's  wrong 
with  that?  Certainly  there  is  no  affront  to  nature 
in  a  stamp  upside  down.  Neither  is  there  in  a 
man's  looking  through  the  large  end  of  a  telescope  if 
he  wants  to.  You  can't  arbitrarily  say  at  the  top  of 
the  page,  "Mark  the  thing  that  is  wrong,"  and  then 
have  a  picture  of  a  house  with  one  window  larger 
than  all  the  others  and  expect  any  one  to  agree 
with  you  that  it  is  necessarily  wrong.  It  may  look 
queer,  but  so  does  the  whole  picture.  You  can't 
tell;  the  big  window  may  open  from  a  room 
that  needs  a  big  window.  I  am  not  going  to  stultify 

[299] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

myself  by  making  things  wrong  about  which  I 
know  none  of  the  facts.  Who  am  I  that  I  should 
condemn  a  man  for  looking  through  the  large  end 
of  a  telescope?  Personally,  I  like  to  look  through 
the  large  end  of  a  telescope.  It  only  shows  the 
state  of  personal  liberty  in  this  country  when  a  pic 
ture  of  a  man  looking  at  a  ship  through  the  large 
end  of  a  telescope  is  held  before  the  young  and 
branded  as  "  wrong." 

Arguing  these  points  with  yourself  takes  up  quite 
a  bit  of  time  and  you  get  so  out  of  patience  with  the 
man  that  made  up  the  examination  that  you  lose 
all  heart  in  it. 

Then  come  some  pictures  about  which  I  am 
frankly  in  the  dark.  There  is  a  Ford  car  with  a 
rather  funny-looking  mud-guard,  but  who  can  pick 
out  any  one  feature  of  a  Ford  and  say  that  it  is 
wrong?  It  may  look  wrong  but  I'll  bet  that  the 
car  in  this  picture  as  it  stands  could  pass  many  a 
big  car  on  a  hill. 

Then  there  is  a  boy  holding  a  bat,  and  while  his 
position  isn't  all  that  a  coach  could  ask,  the  only 
radically  wrong  thing  that  I  can  detect  about  the 
picture  is  that  he  is  evidently  playing  baseball  in  a 
clean  white  shirt  with  a  necktie  and  a  rather  natty 
cap  set  perfectly  straight  on  his  head.  It  is  true 
[300] 


"  MEASURE  YOUR  MIND  " 

he  has  his  right  thumb  laid  along  the  edge  of  the 
bat,  but  maybe  he  likes  to  bunt  that  way.  There  is 
something  in  the  picture  that  I  don't  get,  I  am 
afraid,  just  as  there  is  in  the  picture  of  two  men 
playing  golf.  One  is  about  to  putt.  Aside  from  the 
fact  that  his  putter  seems  just  a  trifle  long,  I  should 
have  to  give  up  my  guess  and  take  my  defeat  like 
a  man. 

But  I  do  refuse  to  concede  anything  on  Picture 
No.  22.  Here  a  baby  is  shown  sitting  on  the  floor. 
He  appears  to  be  about  a  year  and  a  half  old.  In 
cidentally,  he  is  a  very  plain  baby.  Strewn  about 
him  on  the  floor  are  the  toys  that  he  has  been  play 
ing  with.  There  are  a  ball,  a  rattle,  a  ring,  a  doll, 
a  bell  and  a  pair  of  roller-skates.  Evidently,  the 
candidate  is  supposed  to  be  aghast  at  the  roller- 
skates  in  the  possession  of  such  a  small  child. 

The  man  who  drew  that  picture  had  evidently 
never  furnished  playthings  for  a  small  child.  I  can 
imagine  nothing  that  would  delight  a  child  of  a  year 
and  a  half  more  than  a  pair  of  roller-skates  to  chew 
and  spin  and  hit  himself  in  the  face  with.  They 
could  also  be  dropped  on  Daddy  when  Daddy  was 
lying  on  the  floor  in  an  attempt  to  be  sociable.  Of 
all  the  toys  arranged  before  the  child,  the  roller- 
skates  are  the  most  logical.  I  suppose  that  the 
author  of  this  test  would  insist  on  calling  a  picture 

[301] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

wrong  which  showed  a  balby  with  a  safety-razor  in 
his  hand  or  an  overshoe  on  his  head,  and  yet  a  photo 
graph  of  the  Public  Library  could  not  be  more  true 
to  life. 

That  is  my  great  trouble  in  taking  tests  and  ex 
aminations  of  any  kind.  I  always  want  to  argue 
with  the  examiner,  because  the  examiner  is  always 
so  obviously  wrong. 


[302] 


LXII 

THE  BROW-ELEVATION  IN 
HUMOR 

AFTER  an  author  has  been  dead  for  some  time, 
it  becomes  increasingly  difficult  for  his  pub 
lishers  to  get  out  a  new  book  by  him  each  year. 
Without  recourse  to  the  ouija  board,  Harper  & 
Brothers  manage  to  do  very  well  by  Mark  Twain, 
considering  that  all  they  have  to  work  with  are  the 
books  that  he  wrote  when  he  was  alive.  Each  year 
we  get  something  from  the  pen  of  the  famous  hu 
morist,  even  though  the  ink  has  faded  slightly.  An 
introduction  by  Albert  Bigelow  Paine  and  a  hitherto 
unpublished  photograph  as  a  frontspiece,  and  there 
you  are  —  the  season's  new  Mark  Twain  book. 

This  season  it  is  "  Moments  With  Mark  Twain," 
a  collection  of  excerpts  from  his  works  for  quick 
and  handy  reading.  We  may  look  for  further  books 
in  this  series  in  1923,  1924,  1925,  &c.,  to  be  entitled 
"Half  Hours  With  Mark  Twain"  (the  selections 
a  trifle  longer),  "Pleasant  Week-Ends  With  Mark 
Twain,"  "  Indian  Summer  With  Mark  Twain,"  &c. 

[303] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

There  is  an  interesting  comparison  between  this 
sample  bottle  of  the  humor  of  Mark  Twain  and  that 
contained  in  the  volume  entitled  "  Something  Else 
Again,"  by  Franklin  P.  Adams.  The  latter  is  a  vol 
ume  of  verse  and  burlesques  which  have  appeared 
in  the  newspapers  and  magazines. 

In  the  days  when  Mark  Twain  was  writing,  it 
was  considered  good  form  to  spoof  not  only  the 
classics  but  surplus  learning  of  any  kind.  A  man 
was  popularly  known  as  an  affected  cuss  when  he 
could  handle  anything  more  erudite  than  a  nasal 
past  participle  or  two  in  his  own  language,  and  any 
one  who  wanted  to  qualify  as  a  humorist  had  to  be 
able  to  mispronounce  any  word  of  over  three  syl 
lables. 

Thus  we  find  Mark  Twain,  in  the  selections  given 
in  this  volume,  having  amusing  trouble  with  the 
pronunciation  of  Michael  Angelo  and  Leonardo  da 
Vinci,  expressing  surprise  that  Michael  Angelo  was 
dead,  picking  flaws  in  the  old  master's  execution 
and  complaining  of  the  use  of  foreign  words  which 
have  their  equivalent  "in  a  nobler  language  — 
English." 

There  certainly  is  no  harm  in  this  school  of  humor, 
and  it  has  its  earnest  and  prosperous  exponents  to 
day.  In  fact,  a  large  majority  of  the  people  still 
like  to  have  some  one  poke  fun  at  the  things  in  which 

[304] 


THE  BROW-ELEVATION  IN  HUMOR 

they  themselves  are  not  proficient,  whether  it  be 
pronunciation,  Latin  or  bricklaying. 

But  there  is  an  increasingly  large  section  of  the 
reading  public  who,  while  they  may  not  be  expert 
in  Latin  composition,  nevertheless  do  not  think  that 
a  Latin  word  in  itself  is  a  cause  for  laughter.  A 
French  phrase  thrown  in  now  and  then  for  metrical 
effect  does  not  strike  them  as  essentially  an  affec 
tation,  and  they  are  willing  to  have  references  made 
to  characters  whose  native  language  may  not  have 
been  that  noblest  of  all  languages,  our  native  tongue. 

That  such  a  school  of  readers  exists  is  proved  by 
the  popularity  of  F.  P.  A's  verses  and  prose.  If 
any  one  had  told  Mark  Twain  that  a  man  could  run 
a  daily  newspaper  column  in  New  York  and  amass 
any  degree  of  fame  through  translations  of  the  "Odes 
of  Horace  "  into  the  vernacular,  the  veteran  humor 
ist  would  probably  have  slapped  Albert  Bigelow 
Paine  on  the  back  and  taken  the  next  boat  for  Ber 
muda.  And  yet  in  "  Something  Else  Again  "  we  find 
some  sixteen  translations  of  Horace  and  other  "furri- 
ners,"  exotic  phrases  such  as  "  eheu  fugaces  "  and 
"  ex  parte  "  used  without  making  faces  over  them, 
and  a  popular  exposition  of  highly  technical  verse 
forms  which  James  Russell  Lowell  and  Hal  Long 
fellow  would  have  considered  terrifically  high-brow. 

[305] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

And  yet  thousands  of  American  business  men  quote 
F.  P.  A.  to  thousands  of  other  American  business 
men  every  morning. 

Can  it  be  said  that  the  American  people  are  not  so 
low-brow  as  they  like  to  pretend?  There  is  a  great 
deal  of  affectation  in  this  homespun  frame  of  mind, 
and  many  a  man  makes  believe  that  he  doesn't  know 
things  simply  because  no  one  has  ever  written  about 
them  in  the  American  Magazine.  If  the  truth  were 
known,  we  are  all  a  great  deal  better  educated  than 
we  will  admit,  and  the  derisive  laughter  with  which 
we  greet  signs  of  culture  is  sometimes  very  hollow. 
In  F.  P.  A.  we  find  a  combination  which  makes  it 
possible  for  us  to  admit  our  learning  and  still  be 
held  honorable  men.  It  is  a  good  sign  that  his  fol 
lowing  is  increasing. 


[306] 


LXIII 
BUSINESS   LETTERS 

A  TEXT-BOOK  on  English  composition,  giving 
examples  of  good  and  bad  letter-writing,  is 
always  a  mine  of  possibilities  for  one  given  to  rumi 
nating  and  with  nothing  in  particular  to  do.  In 
"  Business  Man's  English  "  the  specimen  letters  are 
unusually  interesting.  It  seems  almost  as  if  the 
authors,  Wallace  Edgar  Bartholomew  and  Floyd 
Hurlbut,  had  selected  their  examples  with  a  view  to 
their  fiction  possibilities.  It  also  seems  to  the  reader 
as  if  he  were  opening  someone  else's  mail. 

For  instance,  the  following  is  given  as  a  type  of 
"  very  short  letter,  well  placed  ": 

Mr.  Richard  T.  Green, 
Employment  Department, 
Travellers'  Insurance  Co., 
Chicago,  111. 

Dear  Mr.  Green: 

The  young  man  about  whom  you  inquire  has 
much  native  ability  and  while  in  our  employ  proved 
himself  a  master  of  office  routine. 

[307] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

I  regret  to  say,  however,  that  he  left  us  under 
circumstances  that  would  not  justify  our  recom 
mending  him  to  you. 

Cordially  yours,  C.  S.  THOMPSON 

Now  I  want  to  know  what  those  "  circumstances  " 
were.  And  in  lieu  of  the  facts,  I  am  afraid  that  I 
shall  have  to  imagine  some  circumstances  for  myself. 
Personally,  I  don't  believe  that  the  "  young  man  " 
was  to  blame.  Bad  companions,  maybe,  or  I 
shouldn't  be  at  all  surprised  if  he  was  shielding 
someone  else,  perhaps  a  young  lady  stenographer 
with  whom  he  was  in  love.  The  more  I  think  of  it 
the  more  I  am  sure  that  this  was  the  secret  of  the 
whole  thing.  You  see,  he  was  a  good  worker  and 
had,  Mr.  Thompson  admits,  proved  himself  a  master 
of  office  routine.  Although  Mr.  Thompson  doesn't 
say  so,  I  have  no  doubt  but  that  he  would  have  been 
promoted  very  shortly. 

And  then  he  fell  in  love  with  a  little  brown-eyed 
stenographer.  You  know  how  it  is  yourself.  She 
had  an  invalid  mother  at  home  and  was  probably 
trying  to  save  enough  money  to  send  her  father  to 
college.  And  whatever  she  did,  it  couldn't  have 
been  so  very  bad,  for  she  was  such  a  nice  girl. 

Well,  at  any  rate,  it  looks  to  me  as  if  the  young 
man,  while  he  was  arranging  the  pads  of  paper  for 

[-308] 


BUSINESS  LETTERS 

the  regular  Monday  morning  conference,  overheard 
the  office-manager  telling  about  this  affair  (I  have 
good  reason  to  believe  that  it  was  a  matter  of  care 
lessness  in  the  payroll)  and  saying  that  he  consid 
ered  the  little  brown-eyed  girl  dishonest. 

At  this  the  young  man  drew  himself  up  to  his 
full  height  and,  looking  the  office-manager  squarely 
in  the  eye,  said: 

"  No,  Mr.  Hostetter;  it  was  I  who  did  it,  and  I 
will  take  the  consequences.  And  I  want  it  under 
stood  that  no  finger  of  suspicion  shall  be  pointed 
at  Agnes  Fairchild,  than  whom  no  truer,  sweeter 
girl  ever  lived!  " 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  this,  Ralph,"  said  Mr.  Hos 
tetter.  "  You  know  what  this  means." 

"  I  do,  sir,"  said  Ralph,  and  turned  to  look  out 
over  the  chimney-pots  of  the  city,  biting  his  under 
lip  very  tight. 

And  on  Saturday  Ralph  left. 

Since  then  he  has  applied  at  countless  places  for 
work,  but  always  they  have  written  to  his  old  em 
ployer,  Mr.  Thompson,  for  a  reference,  and  have 
received  a  letter  similar  to  the  one  given  here  as  an 
example.  Naturally,  they  have  not  felt  like  taking 
him  on.  You  cannot  blame  them.  And,  in  a  way, 
you  cannot  blame  Mr.  Thompson.  You  see,  Mr. 

[309] 


LOVE  CONQUERS  ALL 

Hostetter  didn't  tell  Mr.  Thompson  all  the  circum 
stances  of  the  affair.  He  just  said  that  Ralph  had 
confessed  to  responsibility  for  the  payroll  mix-up. 
If  Mr.  Thompson  had  been  there  at  the  time  I  am 
sure  that  he  would  have  divined  that  Ralph  was 
shielding  Miss  Fairchild,  for  Mr.  Thompson  liked 
Ralph.  You  can  see  that  from  his  letter. 

But  as  it  stands  now  things  are  pretty  black  for 
the  boy,  and  it  certainly  seems  as  if  in  this  great 
city  there  ought  to  be  some  one  who  will  give  him 
a  job  without  writing  to  Mr.  Thompson  about  him. 
This  department  will  be  open  as  a  clearing-house  for 
offers  of  work  for  a  young  man  of  great  native  abil 
ity  and  master  of  office  routine  who  is  just  at  pres 
ent,  unfortunately,  unable  to  give  any  references, 
but  who  will,  I  am  quite  sure,  justify  any  trust  that 
may  be  placed  in  him  in  the  future. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


REC'D  LD 

SEPjy  1963 
"JM^k 

R£C'D  LD 

REC.  C!R.^[p     1    78 

mi  o  1  1RA  -10  P^ 

JUL  L  1  w   lu  r  i 

[d$ep'65JTX 

REtTO  LO 

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fiULJ    A           ,-,,,, 

'30t)         ., 

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INTER-L1BRAR' 

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LOAN 

AMP    O  o    1Q7O 

AUG   6%     \ofO 

LD  21A-50m-ll,'62 
(D3279slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


YB  73361 


ft-' 


